


A Union

by TeddieJean



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alpha Anya (The 100), Alpha Lexa (The 100), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon through 2x03, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Clarke, Praise Kink, Skaikru treats Omegas like shit and the grounders are pissed, i don't know what happened, there's a lot more going on here than I intended
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 207,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddieJean/pseuds/TeddieJean
Summary: Clarke is an Omega, who despite her position of power among the 100, has always been treated badly by Skaikru.  Instead of going to Camp Jaha after escaping Mount Weather, she goes with Anya to Tondisi to try to form an alliance between their people in order to take down the Mountain Men.  It turns out, however, that a union between their people might become a little more personal than she originally planned.Alternatively: Alpha/Omega porn with a healthy amount of plot first.





	1. Fair Weather

**Author's Note:**

> There is a sad, sad lack of Clarke/Anya in this fandom, and I decided to fix that. I'm also fixing the absolute disaster that was 3x07 and also Anya's death. I've watched bits and pieces of season 5, and I love Murphy and Echo and Madi, and also Blodreina, but I refuse point-blank to watch with any seriousness beyond ten minutes from the end of 3x07. Ain't no lesbians dying on my watch. Also no A.L.I.E., City of Light, Praimfaya, etc. I really wanted to see the storyline of an alliance between Skaikru and the Coalition pan out.
> 
> This is canon through Clarke and Anya's fight in 2x04. The Ark has made it to the ground, but Jaha died in space.

Beating the living daylights out of each other feels like a turning point.

Broken and bleeding, Anya remains motionless as the stubborn young sky Omega drops the knife and collapses on the ground beside her. She was wondering whether the girl would follow through with what was clearly her primary instinct and kill her, but Clarke seems to have come to the realization that only a worthy warrior might reach, and that is that at this point, loathe though they may be to admit it, they need each other. Besides that, she was able to defeat Anya in battle _without_ taking her life, and for that alone, honor dictates that her adversary remain alive.

Anya cannot deny that she’s impressed. The Skaikru are a weak bunch, mostly children, passionate and determined yet untrained and impulsive, but Clarke has proved herself capable beyond the level of her people. No matter the clumsiness of her plans and sloppy strategies, she has managed to fell a great warrior — not only fell her, but do so fairly. Anya has never yielded to anyone, certainly not a _yongon;_ not an untrained girl hardly past the threshold of adulthood. Certainly, she is uncommonly exhausted and incapacitated by injury, malnutrition, and blood loss, but the fact remains that Clarke beat her fair and square. The accomplishment warrants a measure of respect.

And so Anya is content, for the moment, to lie sprawled on her back on a rough bed of pine needles in a state of utter exhaustion, surrounded by the charred remains of her three hundred warriors, letting her blood seep into the dirt. She feels no bitterness about the latter, despite knowing that losing more blood at this point is bordering on dangerous. After the horrors of Mount Weather, watching her own blood dampen the ground beneath her body is cleansing; far better that it return to the earth from which it was made than to fuel whatever inhuman experiments are being conducted by the Maunon.

Just thinking of it causes her insides to curdle. Those are _her people_ that are being tortured within that mountain, exploited and abused in the most horrendous of ways. She wouldn’t ever have imagined it; could not have imagined it. The reality is far too horrible for an unknowing mind to conceive of; the Kongeda are a just and civil people despite the brutality of their battles — none of the twelve clans would ever _think_ to treat their fellow people with such total disregard for their humanity.

It must be stopped. Anya cannot allow herself to rest knowing that her people are being so brutally abused. She is sick at the thought of her fellow humans being drained and discarded like garbage, only to be eaten by the _ripas_ who were once their kinsmen. Anya is a high-ranking Alpha who has fought hundreds of battles in her lifetime, has seen children slaughtered and has drawn the sword against them herself. She has watched villages burn and seen traitors gutted, taken part in the most vicious and bloody of conflicts, but nothing she has witnessed so far in her life has prepared her for this. Never did she think that the reality would be so gruesome.

Lexa will lose her mind when she hears of it.

Despite her horror, though, the young heda will be stronger than Anya. It is what she is counting on. Lexa will be appalled, no doubt; enraged, and just as heartsick, but she will channel her fury into calm and productive action. The planning that will need to be involved will require a level of detachment that Anya cannot accomplish. It is why the years when she stood in as regent before Lexa’s ascension were her darkest; she doesn’t have the requisite knowledge, the steadfastness. Anya was trained as a warrior and a leader, but not as a diplomat, not a negotiator. That is Lexa’s duty and her forte.

It is why she must return home with as much haste as her wounds allow.

She planned initially on bringing Clarke with her, on depositing the sky Omega in front of her Commander as a prize, payment for the damage that the Skaikru have wrought. Now, though, her priorities have shifted; she must return to Tondisi as swiftly as possible, unhindered by an unwilling prisoner. Besides, after their battle today, Clarke has technically won the right to her own freedom. On an ordinary day, Anya wouldn’t allow it, but after what she has seen, the fate of her people within the mountain is of more importance than the payment of the Skaikru for their crimes.

She must make her way home. Now.

The Alpha steels herself for the pain that standing will bring, bracing her body for the agony of movement with more wounds than she can count. Fortunately, none of them seem grievous. It’s the blood loss, above all else, that has her body weakened, and she resents the fact that it won’t be something as easily powered through as an injury. Nevertheless, it must be done, and she prepares herself to stand.

Before she can move, however, Clarke speaks beside her, and the action startles Anya back into stillness.

“We need an alliance.” The words are simple but sound firm, as though this is something that the sky girl has been considering and has already decided upon. It’s enough to actually elicit a frown of confusion from Anya, who turns to stare at her companion and finds sky-blue eyes boring into her own. For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, Anya fighting to comprehend through the haze of blood loss.

“What?” she asks finally, and finds that she can’t keep a tone of incredulity out of her voice.

“We need an alliance,” Clarke repeats, and yes, Anya heard her the first time, but she can’t stop herself from raising her eyebrows in disbelief. They’ve tried and failed to form an alliance once already, and the act ended with  _fayagons_ and Clarke burning three hundred of Anya’s men with rocket-fuel fire. The request of a redo is ludicrous.

“And why on Earth would we do something like that?” Anya responds coldly. “I would have thought it should be perfectly clear that we are not destined to work together — or did I hit your head so hard that your pretty little brain stopped working?” Clarke’s eyes narrow, and they may be lying, bleeding, four feet away from each other, but Anya gets the feeling that Clarke wouldn’t hesitate to engage in battle with her again. Despite herself, she feels a little flare of respect for the Omega’s determination. Perhaps this sky girl is a more than worthy opponent, after all.

“Do you remember seeing your people get drained of blood and their bodies eaten by reapers, or did I hit _your_ head so hard that your memory has suffered?” Clarke counters with equal coldness, and accompanies the words with a very pointed steely glare. Anya lets out a huff to disguise the wince she displays, her chest tightening with the memory.

“Of all the things that you have injured, _skai prisa,_ my head is not one of them,” she replies. It’s a half-hearted insult at best, and the weakness of the attempt speaks to her exhaustion. “I am merely impressed that you would dare to suggest an alliance when the last attempt you made at forging peace ended with you burning three hundred of my people.” It’s Clarke’s turn to flinch, though her eyes remain solidly on Anya’s even as her expression turns distraught.

“I’m sorry for that,” she says quietly. Her words are low, but Anya detects the sincerity beneath. It’s infuriating at best. She opens her mouth to snap back, but Clarke continues, her voice louder and a little stronger. “We were at war, and I had to defend my people, but I don’t like taking lives,” she continues, and Anya reluctantly notes that her mournfulness and confidence are in equal measure. It is true that both the burning and the attack by the Trikru were acts of war; had Clarke not made the decision that she did, the Hundred would not have survived. She may regret the loss of lives, but her confidence in the necessity of her actions is steady. Begrudgingly, Anya recognizes that such a balance denotes a strong leader. It is the sort of decision Lexa might make, though the weapons of the Trikru would not inflict death on such a scale.

“That may be,” Anya says cooly, “but I doubt that an alliance would be successful after such acts of war. Alliances between clans are complicated and difficult to uphold under the best of circumstances, and I would hardly describe your people’s relationship with ours as the _best, skai Klark.”_ Beside her, Clarke’s eyes flash with irritation.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” she exclaims in frustration. “Your people are being _tortured,_ Anya; they’re stuck inside that mountain and you and I are the only ones who know the truth. Both of our people are trapped in there, and like it or not, I’m a valuable asset to you. I’m the only one who knows what they’re doing and how they’re doing it; I understand their ways and their technology, and you don’t. You can’t fight Mount Weather with grounder weapons alone, and I can’t fight it without them. We need your people’s knowledge of the ground, your warriors, and my people’s technology. You can’t do this without me, Anya, so if you want to save your people, I suggest that you _listen to me.”_ She’s glaring at Anya with barely controlled fury, and Anya glares right back. Were there not four feet of empty ground between them, Anya wonders if Clarke would hit her again, so great is the rage sparking within the sky girl’s eyes. Skaikru or not, Omega or not, it appears that Clarke is a force to be reckoned with.

That’s another thing that confuses her — she hasn’t had the time to pay the proper attention, but while it’s clear to her that this _skayon_ is an Omega, it is equally clear that she is the natural leader of her people. It’s not that she doesn’t expect Omegas to be capable leaders; Trikru pays no attention to status when considering strength or ability. However, from what Anya knows of the Skaikru, they treat ranking rather differently. Her scouts reported that all of the Omegas from the drop ship — some thirty of them in number — were treated rather poorly and appeared to be at the bottom of the food chain. She wonders how Clarke was able to gain her people’s support and lead them without resistance. Her actions are that of a Skaikru Alpha, though her scent is powerfully Omega.

That’s another thing. Unless Anya has scented her wrong — and she’s reasonably certain that she hasn’t — Clarke is not only an Omega, but an unmated one. In fact, many of the Skaikru appear to be so. Anya doesn’t understand how it can possible that an Omega well past the age of her first heat could possibly remain unmated. Her own people, while they don’t necessarily find their mates in their first years of adulthood, will often seek the help of Betas through their heats and ruts; it is extremely difficult to get through such things on one’s own in the early years. Anya herself hasn’t done so in years, but then, she is no _yongon,_ and capable of controlling herself. It isn’t ideal, but she deals with it, and she wonders how it is possible that these young, untamed sky children do the same.

Apparently they have much to learn about one another.

She supposes, too, that as much as she hates to admit it, Clarke is right. They need each other. An alliance with the Skaikru won’t sit well with her people, but neither will the knowledge of what is being done to them inside the mountain. Rescuing her people takes precedence over the war with these sky-born enemies, and Clarke has a point; to do so will be nearly impossible without good knowledge of the mountain’s technology. Clarke and her people can offer that, and Clarke, as their leader, will serve as the go-between.

Turning her head back to gaze up at the trees arching above them, Anya lets out a huff.

“The Commander was my second,” she relents, sensing Clarke’s eyes on her temple. “I can get an audience.” She keeps her eyes fastened on the sky, which is beginning to darken slightly with the evening in approach. Beside her, she senses movement, and turning back, sees Clarke offering her a small smile.

“Good,” Clarke says firmly. Then, pushing up with a groan off the pine needles, she struggles to her feet. Once up, she brushes off her pant legs and turns to Anya, extending a hand. “Let’s go. It’s almost evening.” Anya stares up at her, incredulous.

“Go where?” she asks sharply. “Certainly not back to _your_ people. I need to reach my heda and give the news of the Maunon’s doings. I will not be taking any detours.” Above her, Clarke lets out a little snort.

“My people would shoot you on sight,” she says with a wry smirk, “and probably me too while they’re at it. I look like one of you, all covered in mud like this. No, we’re going to your people, but we’re not going tonight.” Her hand is still extended, but Anya ignores it, furious.

“Of course we are going tonight!” she counters angrily, struggling to push herself up onto her elbows. She’s almost thwarted by a surging pain in her ribs and has to fight hard not to fall back to the ground. “My people must be rescued _immediately!_ Already it is too late for some. Every minute we waste is another life lost.” She’s still struggling to gain a little support from her arms. She flails a little with one hand in the air, and Clarke snags it and wrenches her to her feet.

They almost both go over. Somehow, Clarke has strength enough to pull Anya with enough momentum that she is ripped upright, but the moment she is standing, her legs fail to take her weight, and she stumbles hard into Clarke. The Omega staggers backwards with the impact as the warrior falls against her, but has the good sense to use her hands, gripping Anya’s upper arms hard and bracing with the strength of her own upper body. The uneven distribution of weight causes them both to stumble, but digging her heels into the ground, Clarke just barely manages to keep them upright. Given a moment, Anya’s legs regain some of their strength, and she rights herself, pulling away from the Omega with a jerk.

The contact doesn’t last, but it’s just long enough for Anya to register the sensation of warm curves pressed into her body. She pulls away quickly, but the feeling of Clarke’s small, strong hands on her arms lingers like a stinging slap to the face.

When she dares to bring her gaze back upward from the ground, Anya finds that Clarke is staring at her, a light flush of color having risen in her cheekbones. There is a moment of silence in which Anya attempts to regain her balance, and then —

“We’ll be walking only a little ways tonight,” Clarke says definitively, “and then tomorrow we will continue on the way to your camp.” Anya opens her mouth to protest, but Clarke cuts across her sharply. “No. Look at yourself, Anya; you almost fell just trying to stand up. You were starved for days and had your blood drained multiple times, and then we jumped off a waterfall, almost drowned in a river, each got hit in the head multiple times, ran to the edge of Mount Weather’s reach and through half of grounder territory, and then tried to kill each other. Neither of us are in any shape to be making a long journey tonight. We can’t stay here at the drop ship, because I have no doubt that the Mountain Men will be back here looking for us, but we need food, shelter, rest, and first aid.” Her voice isn’t unkind, but her words make it clear that she will not be accepting alternative suggestions.

“And where do you suppose we find that?” Anya counters waspishly. She’s bracing her feet wide apart for balance, but finds that she’s bent half over just the same. Clarke is right. As much as she wants — _needs_ — to find her people and spread the news of the Maunon’s doings, she can’t do it tonight. There isn’t a way to keep her body going for a trek of that distance, especially at night. She’s careful not to agree too heartily, though; the sky princess may be right, but that doesn’t mean that Anya can’t be cranky about it.

Of all things, Clarke actually smiles.

“I know a place.”

* * *

By the time they reach the bunker, Anya is exhausted. It isn’t even a long walk, but the events of the past few days have taken an immense toll on her body. As Clarke stops and begins to dig through the leaves on the forest floor, revealing the steel door of the bunker, a wave of exhaustion overcomes her, and Anya bends over, bracing her hands on her knees as black spots fill her vision and she tries not to black out. The forest spins, and suddenly, despite the deep breaths she’s drawing through her nose, her knees give way and she begins to fall.

Before she can hit the ground, arms are around her, dipping beneath her own arms and supporting her weight. As she continues to stagger, Clarke’s concerned face fills her vision.

“Whoa there,” she murmurs, her voice low in Anya’s ear as she holds the Alpha upright. “Let’s get you inside.” Anya lets out a muffled groan, suddenly struggling to keep herself alert and coherent.

“‘M fine,” she grumbles as Clarke kicks open the metal door, revealing a ladder. A huff of laughter against her hair alerts her to the Omega’s amusement.

“Cute,” Clarke retorts flatly. “No you’re not. Now stop putting on a brave face and let me help you out.” Anya grumbles again.

“No,” she argues grouchily, but acquiesces to Clarke supporting her weight as they move over towards the ladder. She’s able, fortunately, to regain control of herself for long enough to stumble away from her companion and shakily descend the ladder. Once she’s down, however, she steps away, and in doing so, the pain of her injuries immediately makes itself known and she sinks to the floor with a groan.

A clang announces that the bunker door has swung shut, and a moment later, Clarke drops from the top of the ladder to the floor beside her, holding a lit match aloft.

“You’re fine, huh?” The blonde’s words are laced with dry amusement. Anya grits her teeth, wanting to reply but suddenly finding herself incapable of anything except for focusing on holding her body together. Clarke takes her silence as the response that it is, and moves across the bunker to a low area that Anya can see contains a small metal bunk and several sets of shelves. “That’s what I thought.” There’s a rustling, and two candles flicker to life, sheltered within lanterns of metal cut in different shapes and patterns. A moment later, Clarke crosses back to where Anya sits, her arms filled with an odd assortment of items that Anya can’t quite make out. With effort, the Omega leans down and deposits them on a nearby table before offering Anya a hand. “Come,” she instructs. “You can lie on the cot while I tend to your injuries.”

Anya doesn’t protest, taking the offered hand and allowing herself to be pulled shakily once more to her feet. At this point, she figures, accepting help is necessary. She knows that she is injured, her body weak from hunger and blood loss, and Clarke is a healer. Of all the people to be stuck with, she supposes she has lucked out.

While she remains standing, Clarke gestures to her jacket.

“You should probably take that off,” she says. “I know your wrists and stomach were where they had the IVs, and your arm is still bleeding from where you ripped the tracker out.” Wearily, Anya complies, removing her shirt as well for easier access. When she’s done, she stands only in her chest bindings and lace-up pants, body trembling with the effort of movement.

Nearby, she can hear Clarke’s sharp, quiet intake of breath. At first, a flash of concern rises in her chest — perhaps her injuries are worse than she thought — but a quick glance down at her own abdomen tells her that this is not the case. A moment later, understanding clicks, and she fights back a smirk at the realization that Clarke is not reacting to an injury, but to the sight of her nearly bare form. Anya won’t fault her for it; she is aware of her own attractiveness. It also serves to amuse her somewhat — it’s perfectly natural, after all. No matter the earlier conflict between them, she _is_ still an Alpha, and a strong one at that, her body lean and powerful; no matter her actions or personality, Clarke is an Omega, and the presence of a powerful Alpha is a natural draw.

For a moment, they stand there, the weight of their statuses suddenly making itself known to both of them. Then Clarke gives herself a little shake, and the moment is broken as she appears in front of Anya with her hands once more full of supplies.

“I’m going to need you to lie down on your back,” she says softly, and though her words are firm, Anya notices an underlying shakiness that wasn’t there before. Smirking lightly, she obeys, moving to the bed and lowering herself onto it with a quiet hiss of pain. Clarke steps up beside the low bunk, and in the dim, wavering light cast by the lanterns, Anya can see that her arms contain an assortment of cloths, ointment tubes, and a small case that appears to contain a needle and thread. In the other hand, she holds the brightest of the lanterns, which appears to be fueled by some sort of oil, for it emits a much brighter, wider light than the rest.

“Okay,” Clarke lets out in a rush of air, and pulls up a chair to sit beside the bunk. “I’m uh — I’m going to need to stitch up your arm where you . . . bit it, but I’m going to need to disinfect it first. That’s going to sting a bit.” She seems apologetic but confident in her words, and Anya averts her eyes to the bottom of the bunk above her, swallowing.

“Do what you must.” She keeps her words cavalier, but thinks that she doesn’t quite manage to keep the tension out of them.

“Okay,” Clarke murmurs again, and this time the word is almost a whisper. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

* * *

Clarke is barely keeping herself from shaking.

It’s a combination of many things: for one, it’s been a while since she’s eaten, too, and they _have_ been running all over creation since midday. Her head hurts, and her rib and shoulder, too, where Anya caught her with her knife earlier when they were fighting. For another thing, she’s shaken by what she’s seen today; she’ll admit that. She knew that the Mountain Men were up to no good deeds, but the reality of what they’ve been doing to the grounders has her sick to her stomach.

Along with that, though, it’s Anya.

Certainly, half an hour ago, they were brawling in the middle of the delinquents’ camp, fighting to the death. But Clarke _won,_ and Anya paid her a compliment, of all things, and said that she fought well. In the past half hour, something seems to have altered between them, their dynamic shifting from antagonistic to something a measure more respectful, perhaps even closer to admiration. Now they’re in a bunker together, and Clarke is faced with the fact that she’s facing an Alpha; not only that, but a half-naked Alpha whose warm, smooth skin she is stitching up.

It’s a bit of a conundrum.

Alphas don’t usually faze Clarke. In fact, prior to landing with the drop ship, she had very little contact with them at an age when status mattered. She got thrown into solitary at the age of sixteen, the age when, had she not been on suppressants, she would have first gone into heat. After that, she was alone until the drop, after which she has been far too focused on survival to think about anything remotely status-related. Even without that being the case, the fact is that there simply weren’t any Alphas on the drop ship who would have caught her interest.

Now, though, she’s sitting less than a foot away from a wounded, half-naked Alpha, and she finds that it’s enough to set in motion parts of her that she’s unfamiliar with.

Anya is beautiful.

Sure, her skin is filthy, her hair and body covered in the mud that they painted themselves with earlier; her body is littered with wounds, smeared with blood, and her hair matted and dirty. Still, Clarke finds that that hardly matters. Her hands brush against skin as she draws the needle, accidentally trailing the planes of defined abs. Anya’s skin is warm, golden, her body lean and strong.

She is also weak, however, with hunger and blood loss. As Clarke works, moving on from stitching up the site where the tracker was buried and wetting a cloth to wipe the blood from her skin, the general’s body trembles with exhaustion. Bruises mark the spots where IV needles pierced her skin, and as she passes the damp cloth near them, Clarke suddenly finds that her hands are trembling.

How _dare_ they have hurt this woman? Anya is so strong, so sure, so commanding and powerful. To have see her locked away in a cage like an animal, her blood drained from her body, abused, exploited, causes a surge of black fury to rise like a tidal wave in Clarke’s chest. How dare anyone have touched her, harmed her, have made her so helpless? A wave of snarling protectiveness rises within her, and suddenly, she feels the urge to lay her body down across the warrior’s and shield her, followed by an intense desire to seize the Mountain Men by their throats, one by one, and choke the life out of their bodies.

“Klark?” Anya’s voice breaks through the sudden storm of anger, and Clarke comes back to herself to find that she has stopped passing the cloth over Anya’s skin, her hands shaking with rage against the warrior’s abdomen. Laying the cloth down, she sits back in her chair, fingers gripping the edge of the bunk until her knuckles turn white.

“They took your _blood.”_ Her voice breaks out, and the words shake with fury. “They took it from you, and made your bodies weak, and starved you; they kept you in cages — they treated you all like animals, and I want to _kill them.”_ She dares to glance up, and finds Anya staring at her, eyes holding a measure of surprise. A moment later, they darken, and the woman nods.

“As do I,” she says lowly, and her words are soft; hard and even. “I want them to suffer for the torture they have brought my people.”

“They will,” Clarke responds fiercely. “We will bring such pain to them that they will wish they had never set foot outside.” For a minute, they hold eye contact, determination etched into the lines of both their faces. Then another involuntary shudder wracks Anya’s body, and Clarke moves back, the moment breaking. “But first we need food,” she says more matter-of-factly, “and rest. Your body needs to recover from the blood loss, and it can’t do that without nourishment.” Anya nods, using her arms to push herself up from the bed.

“Very well,” she acquiesces, as she manages to raise herself up with a grunt of exertion. “Let us eat, then, and rest. We will start for Tondisi at sunrise.”

* * *

_It has been days._

_Days without food, days without sleep; days in which her tall body has been cramped inside a cage as small as though it was fashioned for beasts. There is no light here, no way to mark the passage of time, but cycles of the sun are as ingrained in Anya as her instinct to fight, and she senses that it has been at least three, perhaps four or even five. Almost more than anything else, it is the lack of windows that has her so deeply distraught. Anya, like all of her people, is a being of the outside, of the earth and the air and the light. It, above all else, is almost the most deeply tragic aspect of their torture._

_And torture it has been. The moment the intake doors closed, the Trikru were shocked back into consciousness with metal rods. Anya fought them as they removed her clothing, but they only hurt her more, slamming their blunt weapons into her back, her knees; her neck, until she fell to her knees upon the frigid cement. Then came the boiling water, scorching her skin and blistering it bright red, which did not make her scream, and then the second, unidentifiable powdery substance, which did._

_Then they were lead to this room, the room of cages, where two of their number at a time are strung up to be drained almost to the point of death, and then returned to their cages to await another round. The Maunon draw their lives out as long as possible, stealing every possible drop of their blood, until their fragile, beaten bodies can produce no more. Anya has been up once already. From what she has seen, no one has survived more than three repetitions. Her turn will come again soon._

_She is in pain; tremendous pain. The agony of the burns and the needles rips through her flesh like fire with every movement, and the tiny confines of the cage have caused her muscles and joints to cramp viciously. Her body is exhausted, aching all over, bruised and battered beyond anything battle has ever brought. It goes against her very deepest nature to be locked away like this and to allow herself to be subjugated. She is an Alpha, a strong one; being mistreated has her soul breaking, crying out for her to act._

_Painful, too, is her need to protect, a need she cannot meet. Her people need her. There are Omegas here; not many, but some, and each time they are dragged from their cages to be drained her deepest instincts scream at her to take action, to rip away the bars in her hands and defend them. She wants to save them all. By not doing so, she is failing them all. She has failed her people as their general._

_She has failed Lexa._

_As she thinks it, another of her people is taken down from the hanging wires, and one pulled from a cage to take their place. She has seen the boy before; it will be his third time up. His cage was the one beside hers. They often go in order._

_She will be next._

Anya is ripped from sleep with a tortured cry, sitting bolt upright on the bunk so fast that she slams her head into the metal above it. With a groan, she falls back onto the pillow, but her body remains tense, hyperventilating as she takes in her surroundings. There are no windows, and for a horrible moment she thinks that she remains in the mountain still.

But no, she does not lie cramped in a cage, but stretched out on the mattress of a metal bunk, a thick wool blanket pulled up to her elbows. Two lanterns remain lit on the little table, casting a shadowy light, and by it she can see that the bunker around her remains unchanged.

So, too, does the woman at her side. The bunker holds only one bed, and after some grouchiness, she managed to convince Clarke last night that they might as well both get some rest. Clarke is curled beside her beneath the blanket, brought half awake by Anya’s screams, flipping over and mumbling to herself incoherently.

Regardless of knowing that she is safe, the sight of the bunker isn’t quite enough to quell the vivid memory of Anya’s dream. When she squints her eyes shut against the candlelight, she can see the bodies hanging, blood draining away; her bones seem to ache with the lingering feeling of needles and cold bars against her skin. Bright and clear against the backs of her eyelids, she can see the fearful, agonized face of the boy beside her as he is brought again to be strung up like an animal for slaughter.

Her entire body is trembling.

 _“Jok.”_ The hoarse whisper escapes Anya’s lips in a gust of air. Shivering with a coldness that feels to be bone deep, she presses her wrists to her eyes shakily, noting with frustration that they are wet with tears when she pulls them away. Somehow, against her clammy skin, the salt water feels like blood, and another flash takes her back so that suddenly she is upside down again, body convulsing as her lifeblood drains away. Almost as quickly, her mind jerks her back, and she is once again lying flat on the bunk with the blankets clenched in her fists, shaking uncontrollably. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ The word breaks into a scream before she can stop it, and then she is crying without control, without permission, sobs wrenching past her throat with a force that makes her muscles ache.

A sleepy grumble beside her alerts her to the fact that Clarke is half-awake and pushing up off the mattress. Anya doesn’t turn her head, another cry jerking past her lips without her permission, but she senses that though Clarke is perhaps awake, she is hardly aware of what is going on. It doesn’t help, even with the knowledge that her companion isn’t alert to her surroundings. Anya is a fighter, a warrior; she doesn’t show weakness. She _can’t_ show weakness, and yet here she is, sobbing openly in her bed like a child afraid of the dark. The shadows are closing in again, the bars of the cages seeming to loom nearer in the air in front of her; the wires tighten about her throat, it’s getting hard to breathe; she can’t see or hear or take a breath, and the air is cold, so cold, and her body is going to break —

And then there is weight, soft, warm weight, above her. There is something on top of her, an unidentifiable source of pressure weighing her down. Somehow, it doesn’t feel threatening, and Anya feels a tiny corner of herself float back into her body, aware of this abrupt external stimulus that is _real._ It is heavy, but not so much that it restricts her breathing. Soft, and seeming to emit its own heat.

Then it begins to rumble, some small part of it emitting the sound and letting the vibrations of it radiate down into Anya’s bones. They settle there, rocking her body back into stillness, into awareness, and suddenly, she is brought back in full with the force of her comprehension.

Clarke.

Somehow, in her half-alert state, the Omega has managed to maneuver herself onto Anya so that her entire body rests on top of the Alpha, pinning her down. The pressure is full-body and grounding. Clarke has her arms threaded under Anya’s body, their legs tangled. Her head is tucked into the Alpha’s neck so that her lips just barely brush her collarbone. Through her shock, Anya registers again the vibrations stirring down into her bones, and she realizes that the Omega is purring.

 _“Klark,”_ Anya whispers. She’s unsure of whether Clarke knows what she’s doing, whether when she wakes she’ll be upset. Instincts can take hold, especially when sleepy, when one’s guard is down. She doesn’t want the girl to feel uncomfortable with something her Omega instincts prompted her to do. For that is what this is: Anya knows that the Omega woke to find an Alpha in distress, and that instinctively, her nature urged her to provide comfort.

Instead of a coherent response, however, all that Anya receives in reply is a sleepy mumble.

 _“Shhh, ‘s okay.”_ Clarke’s words aren’t exactly clear, but they’re enough to Anya to catch their meaning. She tries to move, her body still little shaky and tense, but Clarke shifts her weight back down to plant herself more firmly across the Alpha’s body. Anya braces to move again, wanting to protest, but then Clarke tucks her head deeper into the crook of her neck, letting her purring grow louder, and abruptly, Anya’s body relaxes of its own accord.

The tension bleeds from her muscles, her mind quieting as she absorbs the sensation of the Omega’s protective weight. Despite her reservations, she finds herself melting deeper into the contact as her Alpha instincts stir. Almost automatically, she buries her nose in Clarke’s hair and inhales, breathing in the heady scent of Omega. This is the place her inner Alpha wants to be: wrapped in the embrace of an Omega intent on comforting her.

This — the comforting heaviness of another’s body, the soothing, healing-inducing purr — is a feeling Anya hasn’t experienced for over seven years. In all that time, she hasn’t been near enough to an Omega to touch, except in battle. She hasn’t complained; she knows her story isn’t that uncommon. In their world, people die, often long before reaching the limit of the lifespan that the human race once achieved. There is sickness, infection, injury; there is death by the hands of the _ripas_ or the Maunon. There is miscarriage, death in childbirth, starvation, winter. There is war. Death is a basic and accepted fact of life. It is common, arguably even expected, to suffer the loss of one’s mate.

That isn’t atypical. It’s what Anya has done — and hasn’t done — in the interim that sets her apart as unusual. Most often, when a mate is lost, the remaining half of the union will move on to seek physical comfort in others. Even if they don’t find a mate again — though they usually do — they often choose to suffer through their heats and ruts in the company of Betas, or to take a single companion to live with in a semi-committed state. Life is too short, too unpredictable, to stay alone. One is allowed to mourn for their mate but is expected to understand that such things happen, and to move on accordingly. Besides, the human race must be continued. Children must be born, must be raised and trained and protected. It is the way.

Since the loss of her first mate, Anya has let no one near — no one save Lexa, which she hardly considers as counting. Lexa was suffering after losing Costia, and Anya is her mentor, her friend; of course she provided her with comfort, both emotional and physical. It’s rare enough for Heda to take a mate, rarer still to lose one. Lexa will not take another in her lifetime, and it is for that that Anya gave herself to help the younger Alpha through the pain. Her heart was still raw with the loss of her own mate, so the shared comfort proved beneficial for them both. Sharing a bed with another Alpha was not the same as having an Omega, so neither of them felt disloyalty or discomfort.

But it was rare and unexpected enough for Anya to take a mate in the first place, not for her ranking as general, but because of her personality. She is closed, cold; a fighter unswayed by emotion. Her boundaries are firm and unshakeable, and other than her old mate, only Lexa has ever been able to break them. Anya does not desire the casual company of others to fill the aching hole in her heart. Certainly, her body has its urges, and her soul has not felt whole since losing her mate, but she will not tarnish herself with the company of Betas or a temporary lover. She is lonely — painfully so — but she doesn’t like the thought of meaningless sex exchanged in the dark of war tents. She has a deep well of love to give, but it is so deeply buried that she does not have the energy to give to any but those who matter the very most.

She hasn’t known physical contact other than from Lexa in seven years, and certainly not from an Omega. And oh, it is different. Lexa, as needy as she was back in the days when they shared a bed, didn’t indulge in contact like this. She took the comfort she needed — that Anya willingly gave — but they never _cuddled._ It wouldn’t have felt right. Now, Clarke is curled into her, nestled close, her entire body occupied with providing Anya with comfort, with making her feel safe.

And despite Anya’s reservations, it works, and with a final sigh of resignation, she falls into a deep and quiet sleep.

* * *

They set out not long after daybreak, when the sun is just beginning to throw cracks of light between the tree trunks and the bright leaves, throwing spangles of light onto the forest floor. Anya finds that while her body is aching, the puncture wounds in particular causing dull pain to radiate across her muscles, she isn’t nearly as badly off as she would have expected. Certainly, eating must have helped; before the smoked meat and root vegetables that Clarke provided them with last night, yesterday marked a minimum of four days without food.

Anya isn’t over the shock of it, the abject horror of the situation she found herself in not twenty-four hours ago. She knew, as all others did, that the Maunon were killing their people, but she never imagined this. The treatment her fellow people have endured at the hands of the mountain is beyond torture; it is nothing less than pure evil. They are draining the lives away from her people to save themselves and treating them like wild animals in the process. She knows that they think the Trikru savages, and likely the Skaikru do as well, but to realize that they are being treated no better than a beast found in the wild . . .

It makes her want to double over and vomit.

Anya tried to help them; she did. When she realized that escaping her cage and attacking their captors was a futile endeavor, she tried to soothe her companions’ pain as best she could. Every time they were taken from the cages screaming, every time they were returned to them with their bodies broken, she did her best to calm them. She spoke sweetly to those in the cages adjacent to hers, used her remaining strength to project calming Alpha pheromones in as wide a range as she could. All the while, she plotted attempts at escape, all futile, but it kept her mind alive.

Of course, near the end, she was unable to help as much. After her second draining, there came a point at which simply willing herself to stay alive was the most difficult task she was ever faced with. Watching each new one of her people succumb made her more determined yet at the same time made it that much more difficult. She was almost close to giving in when Clarke stumbled into the room in her crinkly yellow gown with eyes filled with horror and disgust. She was relieved, but oh, it was so hard to leave knowing that her people were being left there to die.

Nothing has ever been so important as reaching Tondisi. Lexa’s fury will be a sight to behold when she hears the news. She will know the right things to say to break the news to their people. More importantly, though, her rage will be channeled into war; into strategy and ferocity and determination. Lexa will avenge their fallen kinsmen and keep the living safe.

Lexa will keep her safe.

Anya doesn’t like to imagine Heda’s reaction when she learns how Anya was treated. It has been years since they have been lovers, but they have not lost affection for one another. In that, there comes a protectiveness over each other that has not diminished in the years since they shared a bed. They are each other’s closest companions.

Lexa will be furious at the fates of their people, but more than that, she will be furious at the suffering her former mentor has endured.

Anya has to get to her _now._

She has chosen the shortest possible route back to Tondisi, but it’s going to be tough going regardless. Already, they have trekked a good eight miles, but many more still remain. The journey will consist of three phases: first, the Trikru territory surrounding the drop ship, then the area around Mount Weather, and finally, another stretch of Trikru terrain surrounding that. There will be little danger from the Maunon in the first and last portions of their journey, but venturing back into Mount Weather territory has Anya deeply uneasy. They will attempt to skirt it at the furthest possible boundary without extending the length of their journey by too much, staying far enough at the outer reaches so that they are more likely to pass through without detection. At close to midday, they are nearing it now, passing through the final part of the drop ship’s territory.

 _“How_ far did you say we have to go?” Clarke’s voice reaches her through the silence they have so far mostly upheld, more for safety’s sake than anything else.

“Tondisi is half a day’s ride on horseback, more if you are going anything less than a canter,” Anya explains as they clamber over a stack of boulders, the uphill slant so severe that they are forced at times to proceed forward on their hands and knees. As she reaches the top of the next rock, Anya halts for a moment to turn back and note how far behind her Clarke has fallen. “Though at the rate you are moving, we are not likely to be there before dawn tomorrow,” she adds dryly. She can’t help it; she’s used to moving much faster. Admittedly, Clarke isn’t as far back as she could be, but they’re still moving at a snail’s pace compared to what Anya could be moving at were she alone and uninjured. She understands that Clarke isn’t used to the ground, but _honestly._ Their predicament is urgent.

 _“Hey,”_ Clarke retorts, a little resentfully. “I told you, we didn’t get that much exercise on the Ark. Too much oxygen waste. I get that you’ve been running marathons through the woods since the day you were born, but I grew up in zero gravity, okay? I’m sorry my muscles aren’t as _godlike_ as yours.” Anya lets out a snort.

“I am not _godlike,”_ she contradicts. “I am merely not slow like you.” Clarke stops at that, reaching the top of the boulder below the Alpha with a grunt.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she counters. “You told me to move faster, and I did. This is as fast as I can go. I haven’t even been complaining, and believe me, I could be. Is that not enough for you?”

“No,” Anya retorts shortly. She’s standing fully upright now, surveying the next stretch of land. The forest floor beneath them is smooth, unmarred by undergrowth. The clear ground makes for faster going, but overall less coverage. There could be any number of threats between them and the next grouping of small shrubs that offer refuge.

“Seriously? I’m trying my damn best here.” She doesn’t need to look to know that Clarke is gawking up at her in disbelief. She doesn’t want to look; she doesn’t need to see the sky girl gaping at her like a _yongon_ in her first round of brutal training.

“Try harder,” Anya snaps back, and finds her voice is harsher than before. Below her, she senses rather than sees Clarke wince a little in response. Immediately, Anya feels a small twinge of guilt; she didn’t mean to sound so nasty. She knows Clarke is trying, and realistically, with the Omega’s combination of injuries and inexperience, she shouldn’t even be able to keep up the pace she is currently moving at. Despite that, Anya finds that she can’t help feeling waspish. She’s hungry, tired, and in pain, and deeply stressed on top of that. She can’t be expected to fully hold herself together.

It’s not fair of her though, and she knows it. Clarke has risked life and limb for her in the past twenty-four hours, putting her own safety in jeopardy to save Anya from the Maunon for no reason other than not wanting the grounder to suffer at the hands of the mountain. That, and she has also proved herself in the past day to be a determined opponent and far more capable than Anya ever intended on giving her credit for. She also comforted Anya through her nightmares and made it possible for the warrior to get some sleep, even though Clarke woke after she did and probably doesn’t even remember doing what she did. Anya knows that she at least owes her a little more than angry words. She can feel Clarke’s eyes on her, boring into the back of her head, and resigning herself, turns to face her with her mouth opening to apologize.

What she isn’t expecting is to receive a face full of pine needles that smack into her forehead and land in her open mouth. Spluttering and spitting them out, she recovers her composure quickly, only to see Clarke risen up on her knees on the boulder, glaring at her with her arm drawn back from having just thrown the clod of needles and dirt.

 _“Seriously?”_ the Omega bursts out. Her eyes are flashing angrily, their sky blue bright and furious. Anya winces at the pitch of her voice, but recognizes that this is not the moment to chastise, and holds her tongue. “I have saved your life at _least_ twice in the past twenty-four hours. I rescued you from that cage you were in, found the tracker in your arm, stitched you up, _fed_ you, and found you a safe place to spend the night. I even _purred you to sleep,_ though god knows _why_ I did that, and all you have to say to me is _try harder?_ You clearly don’t think I’m worth anything except for some prize for your commander after I killed half your army, so I don’t doubt that you’re going to kill me as soon as we get to where we’re going! Why am I even _helping_ you? You’re _infuriating!”_ The last part is nearly a screech, enough to startle a nearby bird from its perch. The sound of wings taking flight is thunderous in the silence after Clarke’s outburst. The Omega’s chest is heaving, her blue eyes snapping as she continues to glare at Anya. She may be untrained, may be smaller than Anya by a good half a head, but in this moment, up on her knees with her expression fierce and her eyes burning with fury, Clarke makes a threatening figure.

“That was not half our army.” The words are out of Anya’s mouth before she can register them, and she groans inwardly as she realizes their stupidity.

“What?” Clarke snaps irritably. Her arms are folded across her chest, and it’s making her shoulders tense. The split second before her reply doesn’t allow Anya’s brain any time to come up with a reasonable response, and instead she finds herself cringing inwardly as words continue to spill from her without thought.

“Three-hundred men — that was not half our army. The Kongeda army is three-thousand, five-hundred, and eighty-one.” Clarke’s expression is painted with disbelief.

“Everything I just said, and _that’s_ the detail you choose to focus on?” she says incredulously. After a moment, she shakes her head with a low sound of disgust. “You really are unbelievable.” Now it’s Anya’s turn to feel irritation rising in her chest. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s confusion at the fact that they seemed to share a moment of camaraderie last night, while Clarke was tending to her wounds, where they were on equal footing. It was a moment where Clarke almost seemed defensive of her, and today she’s back to arguing with her like they’re enemies once again. Whatever it is, Anya finds that she is suddenly out of patience. She understands Clarke’s frustration, she truly does, but this sort of petty arguing is getting them nowhere.

“You are acting like a child,” she huffs out. Clarke’s eyes snap back to her, enraged.

 _“I’m_ acting like a child?” she spits out. “Oh, that’s just cute. _How,_ pray tell, do you figure that?”

“You are behaving one way and speaking another!” Anya exclaims, feeling her frustration rise. “You risked your life yesterday to save your enemy, and then today you act as though you have done nothing of the sort and I am the greatest burden to your plans. You tell me that we must work together, and then continue to treat me as though I am your enemy and have coerced you into accompanying me to my village when traveling together was _your_ suggestion in the first place!”

 _“You’re_ the one who’s been complaining that I’m not moving fast enough!”

“I must reach my people and give them news of our kinsmen’s fates inside Mount Weather; if that is not your priority, you do not need to accompany me! I shall survive just fine without you!”

“I _saved_ your _life!”_

 _“I know you did!”_ Anya’s voice has almost risen to a shout. Immediately, she schools herself. This isn’t safe. They really need to tone it down, and fast — they’ll be lucky if their volume hasn’t already attracted every enemy in the area. Reigning in her frustration, Anya forces her voice to lower. “I know you did,” she repeats, and finds her tone slightly calmer. “I know — and do not mistake me, I am grateful. But for you to suggest an alliance, and then act as though I have done you some great offense — it does not speak well for the stability of a union between our clans, Klark,” she says softly. She’s trying to be reasonable, and can only pray that Clarke listens. They don’t have time to be stopping like this, but it seems that they will get nowhere if this antagonistic tension between them isn’t resolved. If Clarke were of Trikru, she would smack her about the head and be done with it, but she senses that with this _skayon,_ such behavior would only add to their disagreement.

Fortunately, Clarke seems to be smart enough to let Anya’s words reach her, and after a few moments in which she continues to glare from tense eyes, something in her seems to give. She lets out a sigh, her posture softening somewhat. Her shoulders drop, and she averts her eyes.

“You’re right,” she acquiesces quietly, so that Anya has to lean in a little to catch her words. “I’m sorry, it’s just — ” she cuts herself off there, averting her eyes even further. Anya watches her for a moment.

“Just what?” she prods patiently. She is relieved to see Clarke turn back to her. The Omega’s eyes are still challenging, the set of her jaw still stubborn and determined, but her gaze has lost the cold edge it had a minute ago.

Clarke sighs.

“It’s just that you _were_ my enemy, first of all, up until last night,” she explains with a wave of her hand. “Then I beat you in our fight, and you . . . complimented me on my fighting, or whatever, and we agreed to make an alliance. So I _guess_ I can trust you, but I’m not about to throw myself in whole hog until I know for certain, right? Our people are still technically at war; I’d be stupid to let my guard down.” She shrugs, like she isn’t sure if Anya will take her word for it. The grounder, though, has to cede that she has a point.

“You are right,” Anya says with a nod. “I understand.” Clarke’s eyes squint up at her contemplatively.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” she relents after a moment. “You’ve kind of been behaving the same way with me, haven’t you?” she points out. Anya didn’t consider that, but she finds herself giving another nod.

“I suppose I have,” she agrees. It’s Clarke’s turn to nod, now.

“Right,” she says determinedly. “But this clearly isn’t going to work unless we trust each other, so I think we’re both going to have to figure out how to ignore that, aren’t we?” It’s another good point, one that has occurred to Anya in passing but that she’s been pushing down in favor of other priorities, like speed. It amuses her a little that they’ve gone from shouting to diplomacy with such swiftness, but she keeps a smirk carefully off her lips. She doesn’t want to antagonize Clarke any further — at least not at the moment.

“We are,” she confirms instead. Biting her lip, Clarke nods again.

“Yeah.” There is a pause while both contemplate this latest development. For Anya, it isn’t too hard to consider. Though they may technically be enemies, she believes she knows enough of Clarke to understand that the Omega has a sense of honor. Even if she doesn’t, deception isn’t exactly Skaikru’s forte; for all their bravado, their war tactics are embarrassingly amateur, even childish. Most of even the youngest _sekens_ would fight better; she would have nothing to fear even if she didn’t trust Clarke’s word to hold.

She senses, though, that Clarke is holding something back. Though her words were final, the matter technically resolved, her shoulders have remained tense, and she chews her lip as though biting back words. Anya decides to prod her a little — they might as well air out all their issues while they’re at it, or this really isn’t going to work.

“Is there something else?” she prompts. She keeps her eyes on the sky girl, watching the Omega’s eyes flit back to the side like she’s uncertain of whether to speak. “We should discuss all concerns we might have, for the sake of maintaining a strong alliance.” She hopes the words are enough to catch Clarke’s attention, and it appears that they are; Clarke turns back to meet her eyes carefully.

“I — yes.” Her response seems a little hesitant, so Anya makes an effort to appear receptive. At the sight of the eyebrow that she quirks, Clarke sighs, and continues. “It’s also that — it’s that you’re an Alpha,” she points out, “and I’m an Omega, and we keep challenging each other, and it’s exhausting for me. And I know Octavia said that grounders treat status a little differently, and it’s not like I actually think you’re going to do anything, but . . . Omegas weren’t treated the best on the Ark, so I can’t help being a little wary. I also — I’m a healer, and a diplomat. I help people; I don’t fight them, so challenging isn’t my strength. I’m not used to it.” She shakes her head. “I don’t _want_ to be fighting you the whole time; I’d rather be getting to know you better, but then you get grouchy with me, and I can’t help it. I feel . . . defensive.”

It’s the first open acknowledgement either of them have made of their statuses, and somehow, Anya finds that it makes her suddenly hyperaware of her own Alpha side. Nevertheless, she forces herself to ignore it, pushing down the sudden surge she feels. She opens her mouth once, then closes it, uncertain of how to respond.

“I am not certain I understand what you mean when you say that Skaikru did not treat their Omegas well on your Ark,” she finally says hesitantly, “but I can assure you that whatever the state of our alliance, it is uninfluenced by status, and will remain so. Your friend Okteivia is correct; designation has no influence on the roles taken by our people. I do not . . . see you differently because of it,” she finishes evenly. Then she straightens her shoulders, continuing to meet Clarke’s eyes. “I apologize for shouting at you and making you feel as though you had something to defend,” she adds. “It was an unconscious reaction to stress, but I now see that I was doing it. I will try to prevent myself from doing so from now on.” The blue of Clarke’s eyes is deeper than it was when they were sparkling with fury.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely after a moment. Anya inclines her head. “I guess that means I can go back to saving your life instead of fighting you?” Her eyes are twinkling mischievously. Anya huffs.

“I sincerely hope not,” she grumbles. She straightens up, surveying the area once more for danger and preparing to continue. They need to keep moving at a quick clip if they hope to reach Tondisi before midnight; as it is, it will likely take them until after nightfall. Having concluded that there is nothing lying in wait for them in the next set of trees, Anya twists her body to reach the last boulder that lies above her. In the next instant, she falls back as pain rips through her side, taking her so by surprise that she is unable to stifle a low cry.

Clarke is by her side in an instant, small hands going to brace against Anya’s ribs in an attempt to steady her. Through the surging pain, Anya registers the feeling of the Omega’s chest pressed into her back, warmth and soft curves molding into her to provide support and keep her upright.

 _“Shh,_ stay still.” Clarke’s words are low, their timbre throaty and soothing. “Tell me where it hurts.” Anya swallows against the pain and wills herself to brush it away and regain a little composure. It will not do to have an injury thwart them at this stage.

“It is nothing,” she says carelessly, and attempts to pull away, grimacing as she is unable to disguise the pain the movement causes. Clarke’s hands, however, catch her before she can move too far and pull the Alpha back into her body.

“I don’t think so.” The healer’s voice is firm. “Where does it hurt, Anya?” Recognizing the futility of protesting, Anya gestures with the arm that is on the opposite side from the stabbing pain.

“Side, lower left,” she grunts. She opens her mouth to say again that it is nothing, that they need to keep moving, but her thoughts are arrested by Clarke pulling up her shirt to her lower ribs and pressing warm fingertips into her skin. Anya’s eyes fall closed with a groan of pain.

 _“Shit,”_ Clarke hisses out. “Your stitches ripped. I’ll have to redo them. Make yourself comfortable; I need to dig the needle out of my pack.” Anya’s eyes fly open again; she cranes her to glare at Clarke over her shoulder.

“It can wait,” she denies with a shake of her head. “We need to keep moving.” Clarke lets out a derisive snort; a moment later, a tiny thud of impact lets her know that the Omega has cuffed her lightly about the head.

“I don’t think so, hard-ass,” she says firmly, stepping back to swing her rucksack off her shoulders. “You want to walk a couple dozen miles over rough terrain with your blood gushing and your spleen hanging out? Be my guest. But you’re on your own — I don’t need to be around when the panthers smell your raw flesh and come looking for their lunch.”

Anya grumbles aloud to herself, swearing under her breath in Trigedasleng as she carefully turns her body around and lowers herself to a rock.

“Fine,” she mumbles grouchily. “But this had better not take all day.” Clarke pauses before her, needle held aloft between her fingers, and raises a single eyebrow.

“I’d watch what you say to the woman who’s holding the needle that’s going into your flesh,” she warns. There’s a hint of amusement in her eyes though, a vague twinkle of mischief that suggests that though she’s only half joking, she wouldn’t actually do anything to hurt Anya.

Grudgingly, when she thinks about it, Anya admits that she wouldn’t do anything to hurt Clarke, either. Not presently, at least — though without any anesthetic left for this ordeal, that truce might be short-lived.

There’s a glimmer in Clarke’s eyes, though, that suggests that she might be fairly evenly matched.

* * *

The prospect of sneaking through Mount Weather territory is nerve-wracking, to say the least. The area is wide, an expanse of land consisting mostly of forest and several ravines spanning the width of several miles outwards and roughly seven in the direction they are headed. Their plan is to stick to the outermost edge, where ground patrols sweep through less often and they’re less likely to get noticed on the radar. Certainly, it will pick up their movement, but with their party being only two in number and out of the way of security cameras, they’re likely to be relatively inconspicuous. Hopefully they will be marked as two animals traveling together, and no one will spare their little blips a second glance.

For Anya, however, the notion of what faces them is worrisome. They have at least seven miles of dangerous terrain stretching before them, not to mention the fact that both of them are injured and underslept and haven’t eaten since dawn. It’s largely unfamiliar territory to her, too, and they’ll have to move carefully in order to avoid detection.

The combination of all of these factors means that they will be moving at a much slower pace than Anya would like, particularly when considering that the sun has now reached its highest point and is already beginning to descend in the other direction. She would put the time at early afternoon, which isn’t fantastic timing considering that they’ve been on the road since shortly after daybreak and have only managed to cover twelve-odd miles since the sun was low in the eastern sky. If they aren’t delayed for any reason they should make it to Tondisi not long after sundown, but it will be cutting it close, and she would rather they not have to travel in the dark.

This is the fastest route, but the fact remains that Anya would prefer to remain a good twenty miles out of the mountain’s range for the rest of her life. Since such a feat isn’t possible, she will have to block out her fears, but the prospect is a daunting one. Passing back through this territory means putting both of them at risk, and Anya can’t — _won’t_ — allow herself to be caught.

She will not let them torture her again.

Anya halts when they reach the crest of the next rise, waiting a moment for Clarke to catch up. The descent before them marks the beginning of the mountain’s confines, and she wants to take a moment to assess the route that lies before them.

Clarke steps up beside her, wiping her brow on her sleeve with a huff. She is breathing hard from the ascent, but Anya has to admit that she is faring much better than expected. Since their argument this morning, the Omega has made a concerted effort to speed up as much as possible, and though it isn’t much, it has made a slight difference. She has even managed to keep pace with Anya when they are moving across flat ground despite the difference in the length of their strides.

Anya has to admit that she is the tiniest bit impressed by the Omega’s determination.

Clarke halts beside her, surveying the land below them with a frown of concentration.

“This is it?” she asks, and Anya nods.

“The mountain’s land begins here,” she affirms. It’s hard to keep the tension out of her words, but she does her best to bite back the tremble that the cold feeling in her chest tries to bring to them. Instead of lingering on it, she does her best to focus on the logistics of the task at hand. Beneath them, the forest floor spreads out, the undergrowth fortunately slightly thicker than it is where they’re standing. Hopefully it will provide them with some cover.

“Why don’t — ” Clarke begins to speak, but then cuts herself off with a hum. Anya turns to her companion to assess her state, and finds that the Omega is watching her. Her face is contemplative, tilting up towards Anya with eyes focused hard on her face.

“Why what?” Anya finds herself prompting. Clarke squints at her, then appears to make some unknown assessment, and her brow relaxes.

“Why don’t we move side-by-side,” she suggests after a moment. “It’ll make it safer so that they can’t take us by surprise with one of us hanging back.” There’s something odd to her offer, a quirk of the eyebrows that Clarke can’t quite seem to smooth out. For a moment, Anya is almost offended. Does this sky girl really think that she is so knowledgeable as to be giving orders related to strategic formation? Anya has been learning how to move undetected through the forest since before Clarke was _born._

There’s still something a little strange about Clarke’s posture, which is angled towards her and slightly tense, but Anya ignores it. She’s not about to take orders from this _goufa._ Indignant, she opens her mouth to protest.

Then the sweet, subtle wave washes gently over her, and the realization hits at the same time as the calming pheromones.

Clarke, who is now observing her with her sapphire eyes anxious, is trying to give her an out. She has sensed Anya’s fear and unwillingness to re-enter Mount Weather’s range, and instead of making the warrior appear weak by calling her out on her fears, is providing a neutral and strategic reason for them to stay together — for Anya to not be alone. Rather than moving through the trees single file, where one of them could be taken out by a tranquilizer without the other noticing, what Clarke is suggesting means that they will have constant eyes on each other, close enough to physically touch. It’s strategically smart for safety reasons, but also means that Anya won’t be left alone with her fears.

It’s more considerate than she would have expected; sweet, even. Perhaps she has underestimated this sky Omega.

“Right,” Anya says abruptly. She only grants Clarke a nod, careful to keep her face stony. “We will move through together. But remain on alert, _skai prisa_ — if they come for us, I do not need to be faster than they are; I only need to be faster than you.” She throws in the last bit as a vague attempt at being threatening; she has a reputation to uphold, after all, and she doesn’t want Clarke to think she’s going soft. The tiny quirk of bow-shaped lips that follows, though, lets her know that Clarke is well aware that she doesn’t mean a word of it.

“Noted,” Clarke agrees with a tiny smirk. “Though I do have a name, you know, if you’d care to use it.” There’s a teasing glimmer in her eyes that Anya doesn’t quite feel prepared to deal with. To acknowledge their open banter would mean acknowledging that they are not merely mortal enemies cooperating under an uneasy alliance, but rather people who may actually stand a chance of getting along. It would mean admitting that were the circumstances different, Anya could see Clarke as being someone whose presence she actually _enjoys._ Anya can’t afford that kind of investment; neither of them can.

Not yet, at least.

“I would not care to,” Anya replies shortly, and then she’s pushing through the undergrowth before Clarke can formulate a response. Despite facing the other direction and being unable to see, she’s almost positive that Clarke is rolling her eyes.

* * *

Traveling side-by-side, it turns out, allows Anya a unique opportunity.

The pair have been moving quietly through the woods — though quietly, she supposes, is relative for Clarke, who isn’t exactly clumsy but can’t seem to figure out how to not step on sticks — and are a little over an hour into Mount Weather’s territory. Anya has been on high alert since they stepped into it; her body is tense, her shoulders rigid with anxiety. In any other circumstance, the slightest sound would cause her to startle, but Clarke is making so great a ruckus walking through the dead leaves that the Alpha doubts she would be able to hear the Maunon’s approach even if they were running at them full speed over a gravel bed. Despite her annoyance and natural inclination to hush her companion at every step of the way, Anya finds that the blonde’s complete inability to navigate nature doesn’t anger her the same way it did twenty-four hours ago.

Actually, now that she’s considering it, _Clarke_ doesn’t anger her the way she did before; in fact, Anya has to admit that the Omega’s presence doesn’t anger her at all. Of course, this truce between them is an odd one; Skaikru is not a group that Trikru would form a peace treaty with under normal circumstances. Then again, the arrival of Skaikru itself threw all notions of normal out the window. Such an alliance is greatly unorthodox, but also greatly necessary, and in the face of what the Maunon are doing, Anya finds that she’s grateful to have an ally who is equally aware of the truth of the atrocities that are being committed within the mountain.

And besides that, Clarke is . . . unusual, to say the least. She’s a bit blundering, certainly, and painfully impulsive and untrained. However, Anya can’t deny that the Omega is strong. In the past weeks, from what she’s heard, Clarke has been faced with any number of catastrophic events, and has navigated them with determination, if not with grace. She has shown herself to be a true leader among her people, to be diplomatic and cautious but ruthless when the situation calls for it. If nothing else, she is deeply persistent. Lexa would call it a fighting spirit, Anya muses with inward amusement.

It’s not exactly rare for an Omega, but it is a little unusual. Anya understands that such behavior would not necessarily have been brought out had Clarke remained in space, but the fact is that there were ninety-seven others who could have stood up for the job, and none did — none save the several boys that Anya’s scouts reported, and they clearly seem to have lost out. If Clarke did not have the wherewithal to defend her people with difficult decisions and necessarily brutal acts, if she were not a successful leader, she would not be walking here beside Anya today.

For Anya, it’s an intriguing vantage point. She hasn’t really had an opportunity before this to truly assess her companion. The longest they’ve been still for together was in the bunker, and then the lighting was low and Anya too preoccupied with the pain in her body to do much evaluation. There was that moment on the bridge, true, but much has changed since then; at that point, all that Anya was doing was judging the weakness of a threat, rather than assessing the woman in front of her.

It makes her roll her eyes at herself, but the first thing that strikes her is that Clarke is incredibly beautiful. She’s smaller than Anya by several inches, her body much softer and sturdier. She is curvy in the way that Omega women often are, in the way that Anya has always found attractive. It’s not an appropriate thought for Anya to be having, probably, especially not considering that they were actively trying to kill each other not twenty-four hours ago, but the fact remains true regardless.

Clarke is attractive, and Anya, despite her brusque attempts to ignore it, isn’t blind. The fact that Anya is forced to acknowledge is that if the Omega were of Trikru, and had run into her on the street, Anya wouldn’t deny the attraction. She’s having a hard enough time ignoring her Alpha urges as it is. Being out here in the wilderness, injured and unarmed, has her instincts on overdrive. Like all grounders, she has been taught since birth to follow her instincts with the justification that they exist for a reason.

Right now, she wants to reject the fact that she is in pain and showing weakness in order to be strong for Clarke, wants to defend the Omega instead of arguing with her. It doesn’t happen often. Anya spends nearly every day surrounded by people of every status, with many Omegas included, and yet she has always managed to keep her cool and keep her Alpha urges at bay, at least on the battlefield and during training. They will get nowhere in battle if all the Alphas are distracted by trying to protect the Omegas instead of focusing on offense — it’s why the Azgeda, brutal as they are, don’t allow Omegas to train as warriors. Anya, though, has never had a problem with it; she has never once allowed an Omega to distract her.

It’s why her draw to Clarke is so unsettling — because she _is_ drawn to this sky Omega; there is no doubt of that. Something about Clarke calls to her, causes her deepest instincts to stir. Anya can’t tell what it is, but she also can’t deny to herself that she feels something towards this girl. She could pretend it’s just admiration, maybe, for Clarke’s determination, or gratefulness at having her life saved, but no. It’s more than that, more complex than that.

She doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

Glancing sideways, Anya sees that Clarke is focused, her eyes trained on the trees up ahead, which are close enough together to potentially conceal an enemy. As a result, she is neglecting to watch where she puts her feet, and Anya sees that there is a root several paces ahead that she will likely trip over if she isn’t warned. They’re tracing the edge of a ravine to their right, maneuvering through the thinner undergrowth up on the crest of the rise. It’s wide enough for them to walk comfortably side-by-side, but not enough that they have much room to spare between their bodies and the steep decline on the other side. Another fall is the last thing they need, so Anya opens her mouth, intent on warning her.

“Klark — ” she begins, and then finds the rest of her words drowned out as several things suddenly occur in quick succession.

_BANG._

There is a shockwave of sound so loud that it is impossible to trace its origin; a moment later, a whistle and a thud plus the explosion of nearby bark chunks into the air announce that a bullet has lodged itself in a tree right at Anya’s left shoulder. Anya ducks and yelps, and Clarke, already too far ahead and startled by the sudden blast from nearby, loses her footing and trips over the root. For a moment, she remains miraculously balanced, one leg suspended in the air like one of the puppets the Trikru children play with. She hovers there for a moment, teetering on the edge of the ravine, and time exists in the gasping moment between heartbeats.

Then another shot rings out, followed by a volley of several, and they all miss, but the sound causes Clarke’s body to jerk. Anya lunges for her, but it’s too late; Clarke tips, Anya follows, and then they’re airborne, bodies suspended as they go over the edge of the ravine.

* * *

The fall seems like it takes forever, but really, only about ten seconds elapse between the time that Clarke loses her balance and the time that they come to a halt at the bottom of the gully.

Clarke’s body smashes into the ground with a force that rips the air from her lungs. The instant she hits, the tumbling begins, and she is unable to do anything to stop her momentum as she rolls down the steep side of the ravine, occasionally free-falling for a second or two as her body careens off the edge of a boulder or a ledge. Her limbs are tossed about wildly, smacking into trees and rocks, and her neck feels like it’s being snapped back and forth almost to the breaking point. She can hear Anya above her, even catches a glimpse of her at one point as her back crashes into a tree, momentarily breaking her momentum.

And then it’s over, just as suddenly as it began.

Clarke sails the final few feet of the descent and lands, hard, with a crunch in what feels like a gravel pit. A moment later, a sharp squeal, the grinding of small rocks, and an equally hard thud of impact announces that Anya has landed nearby. A strangled whimper follows.

For a moment, Clarke is still. She’s landed on her stomach with her cheek pressed into the stones beneath her, and for a moment, everything is so still and silent that she wonders if it’s possible that she’s dead. It’s the wrong moment to think of it, but she has a split-second of the thought that after everything they’ve been through, this would be a pretty anticlimactic way to die.

Then Anya whimpers again, and reality reasserts itself.

Clarke sits up so quickly that her head spins, but she ignores the sudden dizziness in order to take in their situation. They’re at the bottom of the ravine, which from the looks of it is a good seventy or eighty feet deep, and roughly fifty yards across. There’s a stream running through the center of it, which explains the gravel bed. Clarke scans the trees above them nervously.

There were gunshots — she supposes that the bullets came from the trees that were ahead of them while they were walking, but in the confusion, there wasn’t really a way to pinpoint their source. The fact that someone hasn’t already come down here after them is encouraging. Nevertheless, she’s not going to assume that they’re safe. They’re not exactly hidden out here in the open on the gravel bed, but they should probably lay low and be quiet for a few minutes in case someone comes looking.

Then the sour stench of Alpha fear reaches her, accompanied by a pitiful whimper, and Clarke decides that she doesn’t give a damn.

“Anya?” she calls out, and winces upon hearing that her voice is almost a croak. She gives a slight cough. A strangled gasp comes in reply, and ignoring the pain in her neck, Clarke whips around.

Anya is about two yards from her, but she’s up and kneeling, and judging by the hoarse choking sounds and the way her belly looks to be going concave every second, she’s hyperventilating. She’s kneeling up tall, like she tried to stand but was arrested by the force of whatever pain she’s clearly enduring.

“ — Anya?” There is a loud clatter of gravel as Clarke struggles to her feet. Quickly, she stumbles across the bit of ground between them and drops back to her knees in front of the Alpha. “Anya, what’s wrong?  Are you hurt?” There is no reply; Anya’s eyes are open but unseeing, blank, as though she’s lost in her own mind.

Quickly, Clarke stumbles forward, pawing through Anya’s jacket to make sure that she hasn’t gotten shot, figuring that she’ll risk getting yelled at for touching her without permission. Fortunately, Anya’s skin has no new blemishes save a scrape and bruise or two from the fall. However, she hasn’t ceased to hyperventilate, and her body is tense and trembling. The waves of panic pouring off of her have a scent that makes Clarke’s spine ache. It makes her deeply uncomfortable, and the moment she registers how powerful it is, all she wants to do is soothe the panicked Alpha at her side.

She thinks of the sound of gunshots and the Mountain Men, hears Anya’s frantic gasps for oxygen, and puts two and two together: the Alpha is having a panic attack.

Knowing that makes the situation a little easier to approach. Clarke has been trained for this over and over again in her medical classes on the Ark. She knows how to get a panicking person to breathe with her, to re-orient them and get them to focus on their surroundings in order to bring them out of it. She has been drilled relentlessly, and has even put her training into practice on several occasions with some of the Hundred on the ground.

Then the scent of the Alpha’s fear washes over her again as Anya trembles, shoulders convulsing weakly, and all of Clarke’s training blows right out of her mind as something clicks inside her and her instincts seize control.

She’s moving before she even registers it, re-adjusting herself so that she’s kneeling too, behind Anya this time, though standing up on her knees so that she’s taller than the Alpha. Anya is hunched over, her body twitching almost uncontrollably with spasms of fear and adrenaline. It’s hard to watch her like this, seeing this powerful warrior brought to her knees, terrified, by the guns of the men who held her captive and tortured her for days on end. Clarke can’t stand it.

Her hands move without her command, coming to rest on Anya’s hips almost as though as a trial. When the Alpha doesn’t respond, something twists tight in her belly; a jolt fires through her body, and then she’s leaning in without a single thought other than the urge to protect. Without hesitation, Clarke scoots forward and wraps herself around Anya’s back.

The moment her skin makes contact with the back of the old bomber jacket, the rightness of the gesture clicks in. The leather is warm with the heat of Anya’s body, and Clarke presses closer; she lets herself melt into the woman beneath her and drape herself over her protectively. Instinctively, she buries her face in dirty-golden hair and noses into the side of the Alpha’s neck, purposefully nuzzling Anya’s scent gland as she releases a powerful rush of calming pheromones.

The effect is almost instantaneous. Clarke can feel Anya’s body react, feel her muscles grow looser beneath the Omega’s touch. Her head bows, exposing the back of her neck, and she melts back into the body behind her as her breathing calms. It takes about a minute from the time Clarke first touches her for Anya’s body to slowly lose its shakiness, the Omega giving off soothing pheromones all the while. Clarke can feel them flood the air between them and the way they burn into Anya’s blood, can feel how the Alpha curls into the offering and lets herself unfold in a way that she surely wouldn’t if she had her wits about her.

Clarke’s instincts are somewhat soothed by Anya’s decreased fear. However, they don’t vanish completely. An Alpha in distress must be calmed and protected, reassured of their strength, and her inner Omega will do anything it has to in order to ensure that Anya feels safe. As Anya molds her body instinctively into the form behind her, Clarke presses in closer. She manages to wrap her arms around the Alpha, crossing them over her chest to form a protective brace. Tenderly, she continues to nuzzle beneath the warrior’s ear.

Pressed in close like this, nose brushing the Alpha’s jaw, Clarke receives a powerful blast of Anya’s scent. It’s heady; earthy and primal. The way that Clarke’s body responds is pure animal. She can feel something electric rush through her blood, touching every part of her body. The more she warms Anya with her own presence, the more she pumps out pheromones meant to ease her into a feeling of safety, the more that her own body reacts to the feeling.

It’s another minute later that Anya finally stirs and appears to gain some semblance of her senses back.

“Klark?” It’s a shaky mumble.

“Hey,” Clarke coos softly to her. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Anya takes a shuddery inhale as her shoulders regain a little tension. Then abruptly, she stiffens, her body growing hard beneath Clarke’s. A moment later, she twists, and Clarke moves back to give her space. The warrior’s eyes fall on hers in panic.

“The gunshots — ”

“It was a trip wire — it must have been,” Clarke explains the conclusion that has built in her mind, half on-alert, since they fell. “They would have followed us otherwise. We’d be dead already.” Slowly, Anya nods. For a moment, they sit there unmoving, absorbing the good fortune of their close call. Then something dark falls over Anya’s face and constricts the lines of her features.

“They will have been watching these woods since our escape,” she says grimly. “The trip wire . . .” she trails off.

“They know we’re here,” Clarke finishes for her, and again, Anya nods.

“They know that we are here,” she confirms, and Clarke can feel that both of their stomachs sink at the prospect. Anya, though, is up and moving a moment later, standing with a slight stumble as she scans the line of trees on the opposite side of the ravine. “We will have to move outside the boundary line,” she says firmly. Below her, Clarke struggles to her feet.

“It’s well past noon already,” she points out. “Probably it’s close to three at this point, maybe four — circumnavigating Mount Weather’s territory instead of cutting through will add on another five or six miles at least. We’ll have to spend another night out here — that will mean that we won’t reach Tondisi until late tomorrow morning.” She’s expecting Anya to deny it, or perhaps to propose another way. The warrior, though, merely nods. The movement is tight; her shoulders are drawn up high and tense, and looking closely, Clarke swears that she almost sees the woman’s eyes sparkling with tears.

“We will.” When she speaks, her words are tense but steady. Clarke watches her carefully.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly after a moment. “I know that you want to reach your people as soon as possible to let your commander know what’s happening inside the mountain.” Again, Anya nods steadily. Then, abruptly, she turns the motion into a shake of her head. Body still stiff, she turns back to lock her gaze onto Clarke’s, and her eyes are dark and unreadable.

“I will not go back there,” she whispers. “I cannot, I — I will not endure that again.” It’s instinct more than thought that prompts Clarke to take a step forward. Slowly, she closes the distance between them so that they’re not quite close enough to touch, but close enough for Anya to feel her presence regardless.

“I won’t let them,” she says firmly. She’s not actively releasing pheromones anymore, but the warmth of her Omega body is swaying in its own right; she can see Anya lean in closer as she speaks. “I won’t let them take you, Anya; I swear on my life.”

She doesn’t know where she’s found the conviction behind her words, but it’s there regardless. Somewhere in the last five minutes, without even really meaning to, Clarke has made the decision that whatever might happen to them next, she will not rest until Anya is safe and cared for back among her own people. At this point, it looks like it’s going to take them a little longer than both of them would like, but Clarke is going to see it through. Her inner Omega feels more present and powerful than ever, and after almost eighteen years of being caged, Clarke isn’t going to hold it back any longer.

She’s going to protect Anya and get her home safely, no matter what she might have to do in order to make that happen.

* * *

There’s the whistling of an airborne knife, an unearthly shriek, and the deer drops to the ground and lies where it falls. For a moment, it continues to shiver, attempting to struggle to its feet, and then something within it seems to cave, and the animal falls back and moves no more.

Anya approaches it at a light jog, Clarke breathing a little heavier behind her. The light is fading slowly from the forest, the dark thickening, but the animal is still easy enough to see. The deer is dead. From up close, they can see that the animal is a yearling, a young buck with tiny nubs of antlers. It is small for its age, but heavy with autumn eating, and the meat it yields will be more than enough to sustain the two of them.

By now, it is nearly nightfall. They’ve been walking for a number of hours, having moved beyond the border of the mountain’s territory closer to the nearest Trikru villages. It’s slightly slower going this way, especially with the new injuries they both sustained from their fall. It wasn’t enough to severely hurt either of them, but they’re both achy and stiff, and since the time the sky began glowing golden and rosy in the west, they’ve both been feeling their exhaustion.

The plan is to find a place to safely pass the night. Unfortunately, they’re not quite close enough to any Trikru villages to ask for shelter there without going out of their way and losing precious time. It’s doubtful that any villagers would be willing to take in a member of Skaikru, anyway. Luckily, though, Anya is somewhat familiar with this area, and if memory serves her correctly, these woods are relatively safe. There are fewer panthers here than elsewhere due to the presence of the villages, and paunas only exist closer to Tondisi. Sleeping on the ground won’t be very comfortable, but they’ve endured worse in recent days, and with a fire blazing through the night, they should be able to safely sleep until dawn.

Anya can’t berate Clarke any longer for her inability to travel stealthily through the forest. The death of the deer proves that. Of course, she’s still terrible at it, and if human ears are listening their position will be given away in a heartbeat, but she’s become quiet enough that Anya was able to make this kill. It is a necessary one; there wasn’t enough food in the bunker to last them all day, and by this point, both of them are ravenously hungry.

Anya kneels beside the deer and stretches out a hand to brush its flank. Bowing her head, she lets the words pass her lips in a murmur.

 _“Yu gonplei ste odon.”_ Her fingers close around the handle of the hunting knife, and with a jerk, she pulls it free. Blood trickles from the wound, brushing her knuckles, and she turns to stand and face her companion. Clarke is watching her with eyes glinting in the last light.

“Do you know how to skin a deer?” she questions, already knowing the answer. A shake of the head is her response. “Build a fire, then,” she instructs, knowing that Skaikru have learned how to accomplish this much, at least, in the weeks since their landing. She receives no verbal response, but as she shifts her attention back to the fallen animal, movement in her peripheral vision informs her that Clarke has set about gathering dead limbs from nearby trees.

Maybe it’s her hunger and exhaustion talking, but Anya can’t help thinking that if they are able to cooperate to make their dinner while on the run, they should at least be able to form some sort of shaky alliance between their people. Clarke’s spirit shows through her cooperation, and maybe they didn’t get off on the best footing, but the sky girl has proven in the past day and a half that she is more than willing to learn to work with them — or with Anya, in any case, which can at the very least bring Lexa’s attention to their attempted alliance. If Skaikru really can lend their knowledge of Maunon technology, perhaps there is a chance that they can defeat this greatest enemy together.

They have to.

Anya admires Clarke for her attempts at peacemaking. Whatever flaws the Omega might have, no one could say that she isn’t determined. Her persistence is admirable, as is her strength, which is unexpected. The fact that she was able to defeat Anya in their fight yesterday was . . . unprecedented, to say the least. It had everything to do with Clarke’s raw strength and determination, and her victory was not secured because some part of Anya couldn’t stand to hurt her further and let her win to gain the Omega’s trust and give her the upper hand.

At least, that’s what Anya’s telling herself.

It’s not something that the Alpha has allowed herself to consider that deeply. She doesn’t know why Clarke affects her so greatly; only that she does. Because she _does._ There is something about this Omega that calls out to her and stirs her greatest instincts. When they fought yesterday, she drew blood and caused the Omega harm, and instantly, her body was screaming at her to stop. To hurt an Omega is the opposite of what her instincts urge her to do. No matter Anya’s battle training, no matter her harsh lessons to herself to ignore status whenever possible, to not allow herself to be affected, there was no way to ignore it. Hurting Clarke went against her deepest instincts as an Alpha, and immediately after, Anya had to fight the urge to protect, to gather the girl up in her arms and bandage her wounds and ease her pain with healing purrs.

Clarke cannot possibly know enough of grounder culture to be aware that sparring is something of a common mating ritual among them. Often, through sheer tension and irritation with each other, Alphas and Omegas fall into battle. It is never serious, never meant to end with death, and most often, if the pair is a desired one, the Omega emerges victorious. It is tradition, instinct, for an Alpha held down by an Omega to yield and bare their throat if they desire to bond. If not, they will stand their ground and not allow a defeat.

Part of Clarke’s victory yesterday was indeed due to the fact that Anya was weak and shaky with hunger and blood loss, but the Alpha is lying to herself if she doesn’t acknowledge the fact that part of her gave in on purpose.

Wrist-deep in the belly of the dead deer, Anya shakes herself. This is madness. Seven years of being alone and unaffected by every Omega to try to gain her affections, and it’s this impulsive, unreasonable, maddening sky _goufa_ that seems to have caught her inner Alpha’s attention. To give in would be utter insanity.

Nevertheless, the simple, terrifying fact of the matter is that no matter her famous restraint, no matter how ill-advised this companionship already is, Anya isn’t sure how much longer she’s going to be able to fight it.

She pauses, entrails hanging from her hands as the memory of Clarke pressed to her earlier, nuzzling her neck and pouring out soothing Omega pheromones, overtakes her.

Anya is _lonely._ She has been alone for so many years, and though she would not have it another way, at times it has been pure torture. Alphas are not meant to be alone, not like Betas can sometimes be without feeling the deep-seated loneliness and yearning for a mate. It is what she is _made_ to do; to protect and provide and serve, to give an Omega everything they need and desire. She is wired for it. She has been suppressing that urge for years, but it’s also true that in all that time, no one has caught her interest long enough to hold it. That this sky girl has done so has implications that Anya isn't quite willing to consider.

She could pass this sudden need off as loneliness, but Anya knows better. It’s not solitude, or pent-up Alpha instincts, or even plain sexual frustration that has her drawn to this particular Omega.

It’s Clarke. It’s Clarke and everything she stands for, everything she is and everything she represents: peace, stubbornness, hope, courage, persistence. It’s those deep eyes and soft curves and nurturing instincts and strong, healing hands. It’s the way this girl risked her life and freedom to save the life of a woman who was at the time her enemy, at best someone she barely knew. It’s the determination Clarke has shown in wanting to form an alliance, to get Anya back among her people and join with them in seeking vengeance for the evil that has befallen them.

Most of all, beyond all of that, it’s the way that Clarke seems to be drawn to her, too. All throughout their time together, Clarke has been protective of her. She has sheltered Anya and healed her injuries, and comforted and reassured the Alpha when fear and nightmares strike. Such actions require tremendous energy. An Omega doesn’t use their pheromones on just anyone; that sort of action is reserved for people who _matter._

It has been an eternity since Anya has _mattered_ to anyone like that.

She knows that such behavior is instinct, particularly to an Omega, but she can’t help but wonder about its origins. In her political qualities, Clarke is the most Alpha-like Omega that Anya has ever met. While she allows emotion to have an impact on her decisions, those decisions are still sound, strategic, and logical. Surely, her self-control is through the roof when need be. So why is she allowing herself to display such openly Omega actions when it comes to Anya? Why would Clarke, who has had to indifferently brush aside the deaths of friends and family in order to survive, allow herself to indulge in base urges with an ex-enemy with whom she is attempting to forge an alliance? Why would her self-control fail her now, of all moments?

The only explanation that Anya can possibly forge is that it wouldn’t. But that would mean that Clarke is behaving the way she is on purpose, and why she would do that . . . that brings up an entirely different set of questions. Certainly, the impulse to care for an Alpha in their time of need is deeply rooted in an Omega’s biology. However, so is the inclination to protect oneself from an Alpha one is unfamiliar with, particularly one as strong and influential as Anya, and _particularly_ one with whom one is attempting to form a political alliance. Biologically speaking, Clarke should be afraid of her at worst, cold and standoffish at best.

That she isn’t says something that Anya can’t quite reckon with.

When the object of her many conflicting emotions returns a few minutes later with an armload of kindling, Anya decides to push aside the matter for now. They have to build a fire and gather water, butcher the now-skinned deer, cook dinner, and prepare a place to sleep beside the fire. Duty calls for now, so distractions will have to wait.

It doesn’t mean that Anya will stop thinking about it.

* * *

“Will you tell me about the clans?” Clarke’s voice is soft and curious from where she sits near the fire pit, arms draped around her knees in the way that Anya has observed the Sky People do when they are feeling comfortable with their surroundings. Anya is seated several feet away, settled back against a tree. Her ribs have begun to smart again where all of their movement today has tugged at her stitches, and she finds herself needing relief from the burning ache.

It has taken a surprisingly short time to prepare the fire. All things considered, Anya is impressed with Clarke’s ability to create and maintain a flame. The hundred sky children have only been here for several weeks. Nevertheless, she supposes that _someone_ would have to have learned; the group wouldn’t have survived in the numbers that it did if no one could tend a fire. Whatever war crimes they might have committed, Anya can’t deny that the survivors of the hundred on the drop ship are resilient.

Having set the fire up suitably, they are left with nothing to do but wait for coals to form so that they may cook their dinner. The deer has been completely dismembered, and now the meat lies in hunks ready for cooking upon a slab of flat rock. The entrails have been discarded someplace far enough away that they won’t attract predators in the night. Now, they are left to sit and watch the fire settle into hot embers in the little pit that Anya dug out.

“What would you like to know?” Anya isn’t exactly surprised that Clarke is expressing interest — the Omega is a curious thing — but she wonders why. Clarke shifts slightly to angle her body more towards her companion’s. Her eyes flick up to meet Anya’s, and they reflect a small amount of firelight that gives them the impression of blue and gold flames.

After a moment, Clarke shrugs.

“Anything,” she grants easily with a lift of her shoulder. “It occurred to me that I don’t know much about your people at all, and if we’re going to form an alliance, I should at least be familiar with your customs.” It is a good point, and pragmatic, as Anya has come to expect of her. The Alpha exhales, letting her eyes focus on the flames that lick upwards into the night air. Clan culture, of all things, is something she can talk about. Nevertheless, there is a lot of information she could give, and she’s not entirely sure what kind of knowledge Clarke seeks.

“There are twelve clans,” she begins, figuring that’s as good a place to start as any. “Our three biggest are Trikru, Azgeda, and Floukru — the Boat People, I suppose you would say. Each has an ambassador to the Kongeda, which was formed by our current leader, who was my second before the Conclave that chose the new Commander.”

“What’s his name?” Clarke breaks in softly. Anya’s eyes flick to her.

“What?”

“The Commander — what is his name?” Clarke repeats, and Anya can’t repress a small chuckle. Only Skaikru would assume that the Commander is a man.

“Lexa,” is her pointed response, “though you are never to address her as such. To you, and to everyone else for that matter, she is Heda. Heda is always paid the highest degree of respect. She is our strongest and wisest Alpha, and has led us well for more than eight summers now.” Her words are serious, but accompanied by a small grin of amusement. Clarke blinks in surprise.

“Oh,” she says. “She must be older than you, then, to have been leading for so long. Is it common to take a second who is older than you?” Another chuckle escapes the Alpha.

“Not hardly,” Anya says drily. “Heda is scarcely of twenty summers, though age has no bearing on her wisdom or her influence.” Clarke’s eyes have gone wide in the firelight. Anya fixes her with a small smirk out of the corner of her eye, but it’s one that turns curious after a moment’s study. “And you, _skai prisa?”_ she asks. Clarke snaps her attention onto her.

“What about me?” she asks in puzzlement. Anya narrows her eyes inquisitively.

“How many summers have you seen?” she clarifies, and recognition fills Clarke’s eyes.

“Oh!” she responds, shifting her body slightly in the dirt. “Well, I was born in October, so I guess it would be autumns, not summers. And Monty counted six weeks since the drop the other day on the drop ship calendar, and it was September when we left the Ark, which means that my birthday was actually about a week ago. So . . . eighteen,” she finishes. Anya answers with a thoughtful hum.

“Eighteen autumns,” she replies with a slight smile. “Young, but not a _yongon_ any longer.” It’s true; most Omegas experience their first heat and Alphas their first rut by their fifteenth or sixteenth summer, marking them as fully-fledged adults. Clarke lets out a tiny snort.

“Certainly not,” she says derisively. “I stopped being one of those the day my mother sent me down here to die.” Anya winces inwardly at the thought. Privately, though she knows it is important to Clarke that the rest of the Ark people join the Hundred, she hopes that they never do. For their sake.

Beside her, Clarke seems to shake herself, and then fastens her gaze back on Anya with a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

“What about you?” she asks. “How many . . . summers have you seen?” It’s Anya’s turn to let out a little cough of a laugh.

“The year’s first frost marked my twenty-seventh,” she says with a light tone of amusement. “Quite a few more than you, _skai goufa.”_ Clarke sits up straighter at the nickname, her brow pinching.

“Hey,” she complains. “That’s only nine years. It’s not _that_ much.” Anya chuckles.

“I suppose not,” she grants. “It makes a great deal of a difference in ability when it comes to battle, of course, but sixteen summers make one fully grown. You are long considered an adult by my people.” Clarke lets out a grunt, and shifts again, moving closer to the fire to warm her hands. It is nearly time to add the meat to the coals.

“By my people’s laws, I only just came into adulthood,” she replies. “So in a way it’s better than I’m down here,” she adds flatly. “If I’d stayed on the Ark, I would’ve been dead a week ago.” Anya stares.

“What?” The cool shock must be evident in her tone, for Clarke looks up from warming her hands and meets her eyes.

“I thought I mentioned that we’re all criminals,” she reminds the Alpha wryly. “There aren’t enough supplies on the Ark, so anyone who commits a crime over the age of eighteen is executed, but kids get off for a couple years. They just throw you in jail instead, and then when you turn eighteen, your case is re-evaluated. If they decide you’re guilty, you still get executed.” Anya continues to stare, struggling to process the information she just received. Of course, what Clarke is describing is pragmatic to an extent, but she’s bothered nonetheless. It makes sense that there is neither space nor supplies for adult criminals, but children? Surely the Sky People are more civilized than that.

“So you could have been found innocent,” she points out calmly instead of all the other things that are piling up inside her. “They might have let you live.” Clarke lets out a cold laugh.

“No, they wouldn’t have,” she says flatly. “They couldn’t afford to; I was too dangerous to them. My dad realized that the Ark was dying and thought the people had a right to know, and got floated for it. I found out what was going on and said I would tell everyone for him, so they threw me in isolation for a year so that I couldn’t tell anybody. They would’ve had to execute me, because they knew that if they let me out I’d just finish what my dad started.” There’s a cold sort of fire in her eyes, something fierce, and abruptly, Anya feels a surge of admiration. The revelation explains everything — Clarke’s determination, her protectiveness; her sense of justice.  This is a woman who would have died in the effort to aid her people.  

“I am sure he would be proud of you,” is all that Anya can muster up as a response. It earns her a small, tight smile.

“I hope so,” is all that Clarke says. There’s something final about her tone, and Anya recognizes that that’s all she wishes to say on the matter. The Alpha settles back, feeling the burn of the stitches in her ribs as she shifts. Clarke has given her a lot to absorb and reflect on.

In the silence after she speaks, both of their eyes are drawn to the fire, where the coals have begun to gather and glow red-hot.

* * *

It takes less time than Clarke expects for the meat to cook. It fills the air with a wonderful scent along with the woodsmoke, and Clarke can tell that the odor has been absorbed into her hair and will linger there for days. It’s a pleasant change from the cold, dried roots and berries they had at the drop ship, and an even better change from the Ark. Food never smelled so good in space.

She voices it as Anya leans forward to remove the meat from the spit, and the Alpha throws a glance at her as she settles back with the stick on which are strung several large chunks of venison.

“You did not have meat on your Ark?” Anya’s nose is wrinkled in a frown. “What did you eat?” Clarke wrinkles her nose to match; she hasn’t been on the ground long, but she already knows that she could never go back to an Ark diet — not after tasting real food.

“It was a synthetic protein paste, mostly,” she says with a curl of her lips. “We had some real vegetables from Farm Station, but not many.” She cringes a little at the memory. She also notices Anya’s face contorting with displeasure at the thought. The Alpha grimaces.

“That explains why you Skaikru are all so underfed,” she says with a nod of assurance. Clarke frowns and starts to protest, but then closes her mouth abruptly. Anya’s right. All of the delinquents are skinny, the youngest ones too small for their age. From what she’s seen of the grounder warriors, that doesn’t seem to be an issue here. Anya, certainly, though slender, is by no means scrawny. All of the grounders that Clarke has seen so far seem to be well-built.

As she watches, Anya takes a knife from her pocket — one they took from the bunker last night — and begins to cut up the chunks of venison on the spit into slightly smaller pieces. There’s a ridiculous amount of meat considering it’s just the two of them, and the Alpha divides it into pieces a little larger than can fit into both of Clarke’s hands. The meat is nicely grilled, not quite charred black on the outside, and a dark pink in the middle. The Alpha finishes slicing it and straightens up.

Then Anya takes the largest, tenderest hunk of meat off the spit, and offers it to Clarke.

For a moment, Clarke remains frozen, gaping.

“For me?” Her voice is shaky. Anya’s stare is puzzled, and slightly irritated, like she thinks that Clarke must be being purposefully obtuse.

“What do you mean?” the Alpha questions, and Clarke is glad to hear that she manages to keep her voice steady and the bite out of her words. “Of course it is for you.” Clarke shakes her head. A drop of juice drips from the meat and falls, steaming, onto a stone below them with a sizzle.

“You’re an Alpha,” she says with a shrug by way of explanation. “You get the best food, and the most.” Anya’s eyes are wide with shock.

 _“What?”_ Clarke flinches at the harshness and volume and turns slightly away. Immediately, Anya seems to recognize her mistake, and her posture loses a little of its aggression. However, when Clarke’s eyes flicker back to her, the lines of her lips are still tight, her eyes wide with shock and outrage. “Who told you that?” she asks sharply, and Clarke’s eyes drop to the ground. The piece of meat is still between them, held aloft in Anya’s outstretched hands.

“No one _told_ me,” she counters with a shrug. “It’s just how it is. Alphas are strongest, so they get the most food, the most comfortable beds; the biggest and best of everything. It’s the way.” Clarke doesn’t miss the low growl that slips from Anya’s lips at the words. It’s an easy truth to speak aloud; it’s the only truth she’s ever known. Suddenly, though, she finds that the ears that are listening make a difference. Somehow, the words that have always been true don’t sound as right. Something about the forest seems to reject them, like there is something in the open air and trees and dirt and fire and _Anya_ — strong, caring Anya — that belies the law that is as old as time.

“Maybe that was the way on your Ark,” Anya says finally, and her words are a low, shaky growl, “but you are on the ground now. Your people had their way of doing things, but you are among _my_ people here, and here, Omegas receive the very best that the spoils of this earth offer. Omegas are given the richest foods and the warmest seats by the fire and the finest furs to line their beds, because to be an Alpha is to yield to the stronger ones who give us life.”

Clarke is stunned. There is no way, simply no possible way, that what she is hearing is correct. It’s all too good to be true. Never in her life has she heard Omegas referred to as the stronger sex. Of course, she could wrangle it if it were twisted into Ark terms, as she could imagine it being — Omegas, in Anya’s words, might be given the warmest seats by the fire, but it would be for their protection as the weaklings of the clan who are unable to fend for themselves. But Anya has made a point to upend that long-held truth as well. _The stronger ones who give us life,_ she called them.

It’s a complete reversal of everything Clarke has been taught for eighteen years, and a split-second is nowhere near long enough to process it.

However, a moment later, her stunned, loud thoughts are interrupted when Anya pushes herself further into her personal space. The Alpha has straightened up from where she was crouching, and is standing over Clarke with the juicy, fragment meat still in her outstretched hands. Somehow, even though she is doing nothing whatsoever to assert dominance, her figure positioned above Clarke in this way feels imposing. Her mocha eyes are troubled, and there is a determined set to her jaw.

“You should eat it,” she says with a nod of her chin that feels like a physical nudge. Clarke only stares, still trying to process what she has just heard. It’s not that the food doesn’t look appetizing; it’s that after so long of being taught one thing, suddenly being told the opposite is a little like having her world upended, and suddenly she doesn’t know which way is up. She continues to gawk at Anya until something in the Alpha’s expression seems to give a little, and her shoulders drop slightly as they lose their tightness. “Please?” she says softly, and then something inside Clarke is melting as an unidentifiable part of her caves.

She swallows, and hesitantly extends her hands and accepts the meat, her fingers shaking.

“Thank you.” She manages to whisper it, and keeps her gaze averted, fastened on the piece of food. Anya’s eyes hold something uninterpretable.

“You are welcome, Klark,” she murmurs, and then steps back to the rock to retrieve her own dinner.

In Clarke’s peripheral vision, she can see Anya glance down at her hands hanging loosely by her sides, where the juice of the venison still lingers on her palms.

* * *

From the way the Hundred have presented themselves from the moment of their arrival, Anya deduced that they were not among those on the Skaikru’s Ark who were treated best. She also assumed, judging by their clothing, machines, and the simple fact that they fell out of the sky, that they were a modern people like the Maunon who had knowledge of _tek_ and Old Earth sciences.

She was right to think that Skaikru and the Maunon have commonalities. They have one striking, critical shared trait: their habit of cruelly exploiting those considered underlings and dispensable.

As she chooses her own food from the spit, Anya has to turn away from Clarke to hide her body’s shaking. Her diaphragm is trembling, all of her muscles tight and clenched as she struggles to keep her inner Alpha reigned in. In this moment, it is taking every ounce of her control to not set her own food down, stride back over to the fire, and gather Clarke in her arms and hand-feed her until she is satiated.

Were it not for the fact that she is still desperate to reach Lexa and the rest of her people and bring war to the mountain, she would bring Clarke straight home and care for her, laying her down upon a bed of soft furs and feeding her the best, most nourishing foods from the village until her body grows strong and healthy with weight heavy in her hips. To not do so takes every particle of strength she has over her own urges, and that power is swiftly dwindling. The only thing actually preventing her from acting on her instincts is her fury and sickness over what has happened in the mountain, and her need to prevent it from ever happening again.

Now, it seems, she has a new bout of mistreatment to be sick over. To send a group of unarmed, untrained children down to an unknown world is bad enough, but to live by the rules that Clarke is describing — _Alphas get the best of everything!_ The idea is inconceivable. It is gut-wrenchingly _wrong;_ something in Anya’s heart twists at the thought. An Omega, though more than capable of self-governance and self-protection, should receive nothing less than the best that a clan has to offer. They bring life to the clans and joy to its Alphas; they are nurturers and protectors and fierce fighting spirits.

That the Skaikru doesn’t recognize that speaks to how long they have been trapped in the sky. It is clear that they have been in space for so long that they have lost touch with the earth and the innate, primal understanding of their nature that comes with it. Already, she has observed the Hundred gaining it back in bits and pieces. That, at least, is something to be hopeful about.

Anya is pleased to see that despite her protests, Clarke is wolfing down her portion of the food with vigor. It’s been a long day, and with the kind of energy they’ve had to exert running back and forth from enemies, it’s a wonder that the Omega is still on her feet at all. Anya, too, is feeling the weight of exhaustion. Her shoulders and knees are heavy with it. At the moment, all she wants to do is lie down and rest, but she knows that she has to eat, and to watch Clarke for any sign that the Omega might need something else.

She’s growing antsy in anticipation of their arrival in Tondisi. There, she’ll be able to hand over the reins to Lexa for this war and feel safe back among her own people. She’ll also be able to get Clarke into a warm tent with good food and proper clothing. Lexa will take care of them both — sweet, strong, attentive Lexa, who Anya has a feeling in another world could be just as drawn to this Omega as she is, if not more. As it is, she’ll be furious when she hears of the Skaikru’s treatment of their Omegas.

And the Maunon’s treatment of Anya.

Anya hasn’t let herself think about it a great deal during her waking hours. Her days inside the mountain were undoubtably the worst of her life, and, she thought, the last. It’s a sheer miracle that she managed to escape at all, and she knows that without Clarke’s assistance, she would most definitely be long dead by now.

It’s a sobering thought. No warrior is invincible, and the frequent losses among all of their people bring death a little closer than it probably was in the days of Old Earth or on the Ark, but Anya is one of their strongest. The Alpha has been winning battles since the age of six, effectively creating a path wherever need be and never once failing her Commander as general of the Trikru army. She is virtually unbeatable — except, apparently, by a weak little space Omega in the middle of a mud puddle, though for the moment she’s choosing to ignore that. Clarke is a different case altogether.

That’s an unbelievable understatement.

The understatement, for now, is sitting back on her heels close to the fire, apparently absorbing its warmth as the night air grows chilled. She appears to have finished her dinner, which was a generous portion, but Anya can sense that she isn’t quite fully satiated. Regardless of whether she is or not, the Alpha can’t help herself from wanting to feed the Omega until she’s too full to move. That, and to wrap herself warmly around the smaller body and physically shield her from any dangers the nighttime forest might harbor. Damn Alpha instincts.

There’s a little bit of meat left on the spit.

“Klark.” Anya says it to get her attention; when the Omega glances towards her, her eyes narrow in confusion.

“What is it, Anya?” The weight of her full attention suddenly feels more significant than when she wasn’t looking at her, and Anya swallows, but holds up the little cut of meat.

“You should have the rest,” she offers as nonchalantly as possible. Clarke gives her a look like she knows exactly what she’s thinking, and Anya thinks that she probably does. Clarke may be new to interpreting grounder Alpha actions, but she has intuition of her own to help her navigate them, and she clearly isn’t stupid.

“You don’t have to feed me till I’m stuffed just because I just told you I’ve been undernourished all my life,” she says wryly, and ouch; no, she definitely isn’t stupid. Anya feels slightly affronted at being so blatantly called out, but she keeps a hold of herself regardless. Keeping her face carefully composed, she straightens her back and meets the Omega’s eyes solidly.

“Actually, I do,” she says easily. Clarke opens her mouth as if to protest, but Anya cuts across her before she can get the words out. _“Klark._ Please. I understand that you are not used to being treated well by Alphas, but if you are to remain on the ground, you will have to get accustomed to it. I will not sit idly by and do nothing while you could be more comfortable. It may be difficult for you to grasp, but caring for Omegas is what Alphas do. It is the way.” The repetition of her own words doesn’t go over Clarke’s head, and the Omega allows a wry grin.

“You’re not going to let this one go, are you?” she asks, and there’s something half-teasing about her words. Her eyes, though, are serious, and she studies Anya with a look in her eyes that’s almost knowing. Anya meets her gaze and stares back just as steadily.

“No,” she says quietly. “I am not.” The words come out lower than she intends, and suddenly, the air feels thicker between them. For a moment, there is silence but for the soft crackling of the flames, and the space between them seems warmer than just the heat of the fire could render it. Somehow, it feels like the three feet of forest floor between them spans mere inches, and yet somehow it still isn’t close enough. For a moment while they hold eye contact, it feels like neither of them are breathing.

Then Clarke blinks and glances back down at the fire, and seeing that it has died down a little, uses a nearby stick to prod at the coals.

When she turns back, Anya is so close to her that she jumps. In the quiet between them, the Alpha can hear her heart racing from being startled. She holds a small piece of meat in her hands, one of the better morsels that she sliced carefully from the bone.

“Just one piece?” she murmurs. “For me?” She doesn’t miss the way that Clarke’s eyes jump from her face to her lips and back again when she speaks the words. For a moment, the Omega seems to be hesitating, uncertain.

Then, slowly, she nods, and a soothed warmth fills Anya’s chest. She scoots closer, and before the blonde can protest, she leans forward and presses the bite of meat to Clarke’s lips, urging them to open.

Clarke seems to respond before she even knows what she’s doing, opening her mouth automatically and allowing the Alpha to feed her. As she closes her mouth, her lips brush smooth fingertips, and Anya feels her eyes snap to sky blue at the sensation of soft lips beneath her touch. She sees heat blossom beneath Clarke’s skin at the recognition of what has just occurred, and a moment later, Clarke pulls back several inches to stare at the ground with burning cheeks.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers, and Anya takes a small measure of satisfaction in noting that her voice is shaking. It’s hard to restrain her amusement at the petulant response.

“What is not fair?” she replies curiously. It’s hard to keep from sounding like a placating elder speaking to a sulking _yongon._

Clarke’s hands are busy drawing lines in the dirt with the fire stick.

“That — what you just did,” she persists with a measure more of a childish whine in her tone. “‘Just one piece, _for me,_ Clarke’ — you _know_ that being an Omega makes me want to please you, and then you feed me like that and it’s all so sweet and _nurturing,_ and of _course_ I’m going to do anything you ask when you give me those pretty doe eyes and that little coaxing plea to do it for _you,_ because you’re an Alpha and a good one at that, and you know damn well that my Omega instincts are just going to kick in and try to take control.”

“What if I want them to?” The words are out Anya’s mouth in an unintentional rush, and she should probably cringe, but the moment she hears them, it hits her how true they are. She _wants_ Clarke to be able to give in to being an Omega without fear; with joy. As such, against her better instincts, she doesn’t supply any further explanation. There is a moment of silence. Beside her, Clarke is open-mouthed.

“What?” she breaks the silence after a moment in disbelief. She sounds stunned, like she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Anya doesn’t give her any reprieve, instead choosing to hold eye contact as steadily as she can.

“What if I want them to?” she repeats. The second time, she finds that the words have more confidence.

Clarke appears to be lost for words.

“That’s — Anya, I . . .” she trails off with a cough, not seeming to know how to respond. She looks a little uncomfortable, if the red in her cheeks is any indicator to go by, and Anya backs off, realizing that she may have gone too far.

“Never mind,” she dismisses it smoothly, with a casualness that doesn’t match the tightness in her belly. “It is nothing.” Brushing her palms on her pant legs, she rises to her feet. “It is, however, late,” she adds, and there’s a businesslike tone back in her voice that feels like it’s slipped in automatically with the loss of closeness. “We should get some sleep if we plan to rise early and make it to Tondisi before noon tomorrow.”

With that, she moves to the tree where she laid her pack she made up in the bunker this morning, and gingerly lowers herself to the ground. A thin blanket from the bunker serves as a cover. Once she has located a sufficient place to lie without knocking herself with a root or a stone, she pulls the pack towards her and arranges it as comfortably as she can beneath her head as a makeshift pillow.

As soon as she’s settled, her gaze falls back to Clarke, who, she sees, has taken her at her word and made up her own bed several feet away. Though her pack looks to make a significantly less comfortable pillow, she is close enough to the fire to absorb some of its warmth. A moment later, she too has settled, and Anya allows her eyes to close in satisfaction at the determination that they are safe enough for now.

“Good night, Anya.” Clarke’s quiet voice reaches her on the same breath of air as the strong scent of the needles on which they’ve made their bed. Anya grunts, weariness already overtaking her as her body sinks into the hard ground.

 _“Reshop,_ Klark.” Silence falls over them, broken only by the light whispering of the breeze in the treetops above them. It’s a peaceful night, if a bit cold, and Anya revels in the feeling of the air against her cheekbones and the scent of pine and earth in her hair, the press of the dirt against her back. After days locked in a cage anticipating death, believing that her last sight would be white concrete walls, the open air is paradise.

Clarke, she knows, grew up within steel walls, so the ground must have been a shock to her system at first. Now, though, after roughly six weeks on the ground, she too appears to be ecstatic to be back out in nature. Anya is desperately, painfully aware of her own upbringing, of growing up in the dirt and grass and trees and water beneath the open sky. The land runs through her blood. Then again, it must have been horrible for Clarke, who finally got to experience the freedom of Earth, to be shut up again in a steel bunker.

Maybe it stems from different places, but she supposes that they’re equally relieved. It’s another thing to add to their list of similarities. Two days ago, Anya would have balked at the notion of herself having anything in common with this _skai goufa._ But things are different now; Clarke has saved her life — on more than one occasion. She’s reassured Anya, and fed her, protected her, healed her; she’s proposed an alliance with an enemy on the basis of her interactions with _Anya._

Circumstances have undoubtably been altered. In the space of fewer than thirty-six hours, they have gone from enemies to allies. They have even, dare she say it, grown _friendly_ with one another. And yes, some of it is undoubtably due to the fact that both of them have behaved in ways traditional of their status, which has helped to foster trust and companionship. When she thinks about it, though, Anya can’t help but feel that there’s more to it than that.

Neither of them has done anything untoward, and there is nothing about their behavior to suggest that there is anything more to this companionship than a simple alliance.

But Anya remembers the fascination with which Clarke listened to the explanation of the clans, her bright-eyed interest in what Anya has to say. She thinks of the way the Omega has handled her, so carefully, so attentively, while treating her injuries. She recalls the look in Clarke’s eyes as Anya held the bite of meat to her lips, and the odd flutter in her own chest that accompanied it.

It may be true that neither of them have done anything so far but act in the manner of companionable allies. But whatever the circumstances, Anya cannot deny that as Clarke’s lips brushed her fingertips, something in the air was immeasurably altered. It is likely that whatever it was will go ignored — there is a war to wage, after all — but the shift that took place felt almost physical.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but something has changed between them.

* * *

Clarke awakens to a rustling; cracking her eyes open, she sees Anya getting to her feet, and takes the sudden rush of cold air against her side to indicate that the two of them rolled close to each other in the night. Huh. Clarke doesn’t exactly find the realization surprising, but it’s interesting considering . . . whatever that was last night.

Before she has much time to contemplate the thought much further, however, Clarke is startled as something soft hits her in the face. Grumbling, she removes the backpack to find Anya staring down at her with an eyebrow quirked expectantly.

“The sun rose twenty minutes ago,” the warrior informs her without preamble. “We should be walking already.” Clarke blinks up at the sky, which is only just beginning to turn rosy.

“Good morning, Clarke,” she says pointedly. “Did you sleep well? I did, Anya, thank you; good morning to you too.” Anya doesn’t seem amused. In fact, there’s a tension about her face that suggests desperation, and if it were anyone else, Clarke would wonder if she were about to cry.

“We need to _go,”_ Anya insists, and her words are as tense as her jaw. “We have already lost a night of travel, and every second we spend delaying is another potential life lost. We must reach Tondisi before noon.”

“Okay, okay.” Clarke tries to alter her tone into something soothing rather than irritated, sensing that now is not the moment for teasing. “Let me roll up my blanket and I’ll be ready to go, all right?” With that, she rolls over, and within a minute or so is on her feet with her backpack on her shoulders. She’s ready to start off when she notices Anya wincing, holding a hand to her side. Instantly, Clarke is beside her, lifting up the bottom of the Alpha’s shirt to take in the sight of blood-soaked bandages. “I’m sorry,” she coos, “I should have remembered to change your bandages last night. You must be so uncomfortable.”

Anya keeps her face impassive.

“I will be fine,” she dismisses stiffly, but Clarke, it seems, is having none of it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she counters. “It will only take me a minute, and I won’t have you walking around in bloody bandages all day; you’ll give yourself an infection if you don’t already have one.” Anya stares at her, her expression carefully blank. Then, after a moment, something in her eyes seems to soften.

“All right,” she allows. Then she drops her gaze purposefully to Clarke’s midsection. “But you will change yours, too. I will not let you forget your own health when you are so attentive to mine,” she says firmly. Clarke studies her, letting her eyes rove back and forth across the Alpha’s face. Though it is arranged into a careful expression of nonchalance, it’s clear to her that Anya is concerned.

“Okay,” she grants easily. “I’ll do mine right after yours. Arms up?” she prompts with a little nudge to the elbows. Obediently, Anya raises her arms, a slight wince betraying her discomfort.

It only takes a little longer than the promised minute to strip the old, dirty bandages from Anya’s ribs, clean the wound gently, and replace the blood-caked strips of fabric with clean ones torn from the bottom of Clarke’s blanket. Despite the rather alarming amount of blood on the bandages, she is relieved to discover that Anya’s wounds don’t seem to be showing any signs of infection. As she gently wipes them clean, she finds that her hands linger, her fingertips brushing against the warm skin.

The small puncture marks in Anya’s skin are the Mountain Men’s doing, as is the place where the tracker was ripped from her skin. However, the wound in her side, the deep one, was caused by Clarke’s knife, and the small cuts on her face by her knuckles. As she cleans them, smoothing away the dried blood between sharp eyebrows while Anya watches her steadily, Clarke feels her chest tighten with guilt. She knows that things between them were very different two days ago; after all, Anya was just as eager to kill her as she was to kill Anya.

Now, though, things have changed, and Clarke can’t help the surge of emotion that rises in her at the thought of having harmed this Alpha — this fierce, kind Alpha who in the past twelve hours alone has treated Clarke better than any other Alpha ever has in her eighteen years of life. She knows that striking out was an act of self-preservation, but now her hands shake at the thought of hurting this woman who now her instincts only scream at her to defend.

 _“I’m sorry I hurt you.”_ The words escape her in a whisper. Clarke’s throat feels suddenly tight as her fingertips shake against the warrior’s temples. She casts her eyes downward, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

Warm hands catch her wrists, and Clarke’s gaze flies back upwards to find Anya watching her with soft eyes.

“And I, you, _skai prisa,”_ Anya responds smoothly, and her words are like a cool balm on the pain in Clarke’s chest. “But your apologies are unnecessary. You were fighting for your life, and you fought well. I only hope that you know that you have nothing to fear from me now.” Her eyebrows are raised imploringly, and suddenly, Clarke finds that it’s difficult to hold eye contact. Anya’s gaze feels like its x-raying her, like if Clarke lets her look for too long she’ll see more than she ought to see.

“Nothing but your irresistibility,” the Omega mutters under her breath as she steps away, and she sees a slender eyebrow lift in response.

“What?” The set of Anya’s lips is amused, like she knows exactly what Clarke said despite the low volume.

“Nothing,” Clarke says quickly. Stepping back further, she clears her throat loudly in an attempt to dispel its tightness. “Never mind, Anya. I’ll just re-wrap my bandages and then we can go, okay?” She feels a little desperate to maintain an aura of calm, but from the way Anya’s smirking, she’s pretty sure it’s clear that she’s failing spectacularly. Whatever — it’s fine. Clarke is fine.

“All right.” Anya’s lips quirk into the tiniest of grins, and it registers that this is the first time Clarke has seen her display any semblance of a smile. It’s small, but something about it makes the Omega’s stomach tighten.

Clarke is definitely not fine.

* * *

To Anya’s great relief, the morning passes largely without incident. The mountains make for hard going, particularly with both of them injured, but they manage to make decent time.

Anya is glad. She has spent the majority of the past two days focused on her all-consuming need to reach Tondisi and relay the news of their peoples’ demise to Lexa and the rest of the Trikru army. The Coalition ambassadors from the other eleven clans will need to be summoned, and a war council formed. They will also, she realizes, need to communicate with the rest of Clarke’s people who have managed to remain outside the mountain, as she does not presume the Omega to have all of the requisite knowledge of Maunon technology on her own.

No; this war will require cooperation from all sides, which, given recent events with the Hundred and not-so recent history with some of the other clans, may take some time. That is part of why it is so important that they get this process started immediately. The math is simple: the more time they waste, the more of their people die, and Anya is already haunted by enough ghosts to last a lifetime. She also won’t deny that she’ll be enormously relieved to be back in the company of Lexa, if for purely selfish reasons. Her time in the mountain has left her fearful and deeply troubled, but being near Lexa will help to assuage that; Anya will of course lead her army into battle, but there is simply no conceivable way that Lexa will allow that sort of harm to come to her again.

By the time they come to the creek that marks the outer reaches of Tondisi, the sun has nearly reached its highest point. They’ve been walking for hours nonstop, and Anya is surprised and impressed that Clarke has voiced so few complaints. It occurs to her that perhaps the Omega is simply quiet in her exhaustion. The journey has not been easy, and it especially must not have been so for this _skayon_ who is injured and has so little experience with forest terrain. Nevertheless, Clarke has remained upbeat as far as the circumstances allow, so that by the time they come to the small river, the only complaint Anya has heard so far this morning is one about a snake that surprised them farther back along the path.

At the sight of the river, though, Clarke balks, and her face grows pale.

“Um, Anya,” she says cautiously as the warrior studies the best way to cross. “Do we have to — is there a bridge we can use?” Her casual words have an uneasy edge to them, but Anya doesn’t really register it. Busy calculating the shallowest route, she shakes her head.

“Not here. The nearest bridge is a good five miles east; it would put us well off-track. The fastest way is straight through — it is only a mile and a half from here to the gates of the village,” she explains distractedly. “To swim will be much faster.” She expects to hear some kind of acknowledgement, so when her words are met with nothing but stiff silence, it occurs to her that something is wrong. Having chosen the safest route across, she turns back to see Clarke staring at the river with an expression of fixed horror. “Klark?” she questions curiously. The Omega’s eyes snap to her face.

“That can’t be safe!” Clarke protests disbelievingly. “There are monsters in the water — I know, I’ve seen them; one of them almost killed Octavia. It would have taken her if Jasper hadn’t jumped in and pulled her to shore!” She looks so terrified that as much as Anya wants to find her fear amusing, she can’t bring herself to be so mean.

“I understand,” she acknowledges with a nod instead. “The water snakes are very large, and they can kill you, yes, but they lurk only in the deepest waters. This section of the river is much too shallow for them,” she explains. The water is indeed shallow here, enough so that the bottom — and its absence of monsters — is easily visible. Slowly, Clarke nods, though she doesn’t look much persuaded by the reassurance. “This is the narrowest part of the river, as well,” Anya adds to help ease her mind. “Do you see how deep the sand bar extends into the current? It will not even be necessary to swim very far.” Again, Clarke’s face appears to grow tight.

“That doesn’t exactly help,” she counters ruefully. Anya cannot stop herself from raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” she wants to know. Clarke is biting her lip. For a moment, she seems to deliberate, drawing the toe of her shoe back and forth through the gravel like a small child.

“I uh — I can’t swim,” she admits quietly, and her cheeks flare with embarrassment. “None of us from the Ark can.” From the way she holds her shoulders, it’s clear that she’s expecting chastisement. It’s a fair expectation — after all, Anya spent their entire escape two days ago berating her for being clumsy, slow, and inept.

What she clearly doesn’t expect is the shrug that Anya gives.

“That is fine,” Anya says nonchalantly. “I will carry you, then.”

Clarke blinks.

“You’ll . . . what?” she parrots, and Anya lifts her eyebrows at her pointedly.

“I said I will carry you, Klark,” she repeats. “I believe the water is shallow enough that I will be able to stand the entire way, even if you will not.” Then she pauses, a thought occurring to her. “Unless . . . that is not agreeable?” she adds.

She has never seen anyone react so fast as when Clarke shakes her head.

“No, no! That’s fine! That’s — more than fine that’s — yeah. Okay. Thank you,” she concludes, blushing wildly at her failed attempt at coherence. Anya has to fight to restrain a chuckle at the Omega’s fumbling. Whatever the sky girl’s ferocity, she has noticed that Clarke tends to grow easily flustered.

It’s almost cute.

“All right, then,” she concludes. Without further ado, she toes off her shoes and shrugs out of her jacket, leaving only the mesh wrapping from the mountain as covering. A moment later, her pants follow, and she bends over to tie the items into a bundle. From this position, bent over, she can’t see Clarke’s startled expression, but she can hear the Omega spluttering.

“What — what are you doing?” Clarke stammers, and Anya glances up at her with a significant look.

“Removing my clothing — what does it look like?” she replies evenly. Clarke’s eyes are wide.

“But — why?” she protests. Her expression is twisted with wild confusion, and Anya cannot help but smirk as she rises back to her feet.

“I do not speak for you, but I would rather not make the rest of this journey in sopping wet clothes,” she explains with a meaningful eyebrow raise. “But if you would, then by all means, remain dressed.” She tries her hardest to restrain her smirk from growing visible, but she has a feeling that she’s doing rather poorly, if the blush in Clarke’s cheeks is anything to go by. The poor girl appears frozen, and her eyes dart back and forth before settling somewhere roughly a foot above Anya’s head. She doesn’t move, staring determinedly at the wall of trees across the river, and for a moment, Anya thinks that she might actually remain fully clothed, after all.

Then as she watches, Clarke swallows, and slowly leans over to unlace her shoes.

It only takes a moment before the Omega is straightening up, bare but for her underwear and odd sky chest binding, and suddenly, Anya is the one who can’t seem to find a safe place to look. She feels a little ridiculous fastening her gaze elsewhere; Anya isn’t a virginal _yongon,_ for spirit’s sake, and they’re going to be _touching_ in a moment anyway. Nonetheless, she can’t seem to get her eyes to stop straying, and it feels . . . not inappropriate, but certainly not like a good idea.

“ . . . All right,” she decides, still struggling to keep her gaze restricted to appropriate locations. “You will carry the clothing bundles, and I will carry you, and with any luck we will keep them at least partially dry,” she explains. She chances a glance back at Clarke, and finds the blonde staring directly at her, eyes wide.

So much for propriety.

“Klark?” Anya raises her voice when her words garner no response. At the sound of her name, Clarke’s eyes snap up to the Alpha’s face, and Anya can’t restrain a chuckle. It’s clear that Clarke hasn’t heard a word she’s said. “The clothes?” she prompts with a nod towards the two bundles. The Omega follows her line of vision, and her cheeks flush deep red.

“Right,” she says sheepishly. “Sorry. I got . . . distracted. By the water,” she tries to clarify when Anya merely grins in response. The Alpha lets out a snort.

“Whatever you say, _skai prisa,”_ she says lightly. “Now, are you going to get in my arms or not?” If possible, Clarke’s cheeks grow even redder at the question.

“I — yeah, okay,” she breathes out heavily. “I mean, yes.” As Anya continues to grin at her, she gathers up the two bundles of clothing and draws a deep breath. She locks eyes with the Alpha. “Shall we?”

At Anya’s nod, she moves forward, and the two of them step into the water.

It’s cold at this time of year, and Anya can feel goosebumps break out the moment the water hits her flesh. They’re only in up to their ankles here, but already, she’s anticipating the cold dunk. She knows she was right earlier — at the deepest part of the river here, she should still be able to stand, so as long as the current isn’t too strong, she’ll be able to hold onto Clarke with no problem. Of all the crossings they could have come to, this is one of the easiest.

Ignoring the chill, Anya wades out until the water is nearly at her waist. When it reaches the bottom of the bandages guarding the cut on her ribs, she pauses, but only for a moment. Their bandages will get wet, which isn’t ideal, but there isn’t a great deal that they can do to prevent it. Once they have reached the village, Nyko will be able to tend to them.

“All right,” she calls to Clarke, turning to beckon her farther out. The Omega is still only up to her knees, and clutching the clothing bundles to her chest as she shivers.

“Cold,” she grumbles through gritted teeth. Anya presses her lips together.

“You will be thankful, then, for the dry clothing once we reach the other side,” she says pointedly. “Now get out here and get in my arms so that neither of us freeze for any longer than we have to.” A moment later, it hits her how her words sounded. Judging by the look on Clarke’s face, she’s not the only one who’s noticed, but Clarke doesn’t appear to be in any mood to tease. Wading out a little further, she manages to get close enough for Anya to be within touching distance.

“So . . . how do we do this?” she asks awkwardly through a shiver. Anya rolls her eyes. A few minutes ago, she would have been more tolerant of the Omega’s apparent discomfort, but she’s cold, and tired, and the water seeping through her bandages hurts. She wants to get to the village now and end this nonsense.

“Simple,” she tells her. “You wrap your arms around my neck, and your legs around my waist. I carry you. You do not drop the clothing. It is not difficult.” Her words aren’t quite snappish, but they’re brusque enough that Clarke seems to sense that this is not a moment for dallying. Obediently, she moves closer. For a moment, she seems to hesitate, her eyes darting back and forth between the two shores.

Then she takes a deep breath, appearing to steel herself, and moving quickly through the water, she reaches Anya and latches on.

The moment their bodies are touching, Anya realizes her mistake. It’s not an issue of balance, or of strength; she’s more than strong enough to keep them both afloat, despite the pain of Clarke’s knee digging into the stitches in her ribcage. They will make it safely across.

No, it’s the simple fact that the very instant Clarke presses her bare skin to Anya’s, an electric thrill runs through her body, and every other thought leaves Anya’s mind in a rush.

Clarke is warm, the sensation a sharp contrast to the icy chill of the water. She is warm _everywhere:_ in her arms, wrapped around Anya’s neck, in her face tucked against the Alpha’s throat. She’s warm where her ankles are hooked around the small of Anya’s back, and most painfully of all where the juncture of her thighs presses into Anya’s abs. The weight of the Omega in her arms feels _right,_ the press of her body stirring up parts of Anya that have long laid dormant. It’s wonderful, it’s torturous, and Anya doesn’t ever want it to end, which means that it needs to be over as soon as humanly possible.

Despite the sizable distance, it seems like seconds before Anya is stumbling into shallower water and up onto the bank. The moment her feet hit dry earth, she drops Clarke away from her and steps back on unsteady legs.

This is worse than she thought.

Despite her urge to contemplate it, though, Anya swiftly puts it out of her mind. There will be time later to consider again just exactly how inadvisable this is, but now is not the time. Now that the final barrier is out of the way, Tondisi finally seems within reach. They only have a little over a mile to go before they reach the guarded walls of the village. Were it not for her rather deplorable condition, Anya would run the entire distance.

As it is, she dresses at top speed, trying not to watch as Clarke struggles to force her wet body into her clothes. She’s still hopping on one foot trying to get her shoe on when Anya has finished and crossed her arms, waiting impatiently. The minute she’s ready to go, the warrior takes off, leaving the Omega to follow her as best she can through the wall of the forest where the prickers are the thickest without getting whacked in the face.

Despite Anya’s hurry, it takes a little longer than she would like for them to reach the hillock that marks the boundary of the village. They’re both exhausted, after all, and carrying Clarke through the water took a little more out of her than Anya would care to admit. Her ribs are smarting, her shoulders are aching, and there’s definitely a blister forming on her foot. On top of it all, the days and nights of food and sleep deprivation and blood loss are catching up, leaving her woozy and weak on her feet.

It’s all right now, though. They’ve made it. There are friends and allies here, and weapons, and people who can share in her misery and help plan a siege against the mountain.

And there’s Lexa.

With that last, joyous thought rising in her mind, it’s like a weight lifts off of Anya’s chest. She straightens up from where she’s leaning against the back of a tree, and with the thought in mind that she will see Lexa in just a few minutes, Anya seizes Clarke’s hand to drag her with her, moves out from behind the supporting tree, and steps forward.

The arrow is embedded in her shoulder before she can take a second step.

Anya stumbles back with a high-pitched cry, but before she can even fully register what’s happened, there’s a dull rip of impact, and Clarke is doubling over beside her with an arrow in her thigh and letting out a yelp to match.

Rapidly, Anya steps back, scanning the trees around them for enemies as a shout echoes from somewhere nearby. Then another arrow rips by her, embedding itself in a nearby tree, and she realizes where they’re coming from and why in the same instant.

This is no enemy attack; these are Lexa and Indra’s sentries, posted on guard at the gates to Tondisi. At this distance, they are too far away for them to recognize Anya, and no wonder they don’t stop to second guess it. She led her soldiers into battle against the Hundred a week ago, she their finest warrior, and hasn’t been seen since. As far as they are concerned, she was either burned in the drop ship fire or taken along with the Hundred by the Maunon. In either case, she will have long been assumed dead; they can’t see her from this distance anyway, but knowing what they know of her demise, they won’t be looking very closely. She has arrived at the perimeter of a major Trikru village wearing clothes taken from the mountain, accompanied by the known leader of the Sky People.

It’s a wonder she’s not dead already.

Mind scrambling to find a way to let them know it is she who has returned, Anya ducks to avoid being hit by the next volley of arrows. She successfully manages to get low enough to avoid contact, but it’s too late. A sharp cry announces that Clarke has been hit again, this time in the upper arm. Fury and panic rise in tandem in Anya’s chest, and she moves up to where Clarke is bent double. In her slightly blurred vision, she can see several of the archers descending from the wall, and though she doesn’t want them to improve their accuracy, she hopes that they can get close enough to identify her before they fire a killing shot.

“Get _down,_ Klark!” she orders as she swerves to the side to avoid getting hit again. “They do not know you are with me, they think you are the enemy — get behind the tree so they cannot aim at you.” Clarke whimpers, and for a moment, Anya thinks she’s going to have to drag her to safety. But then the Omega is moving, twisting her body out of the way of another shot — but she’s moving in the wrong direction, _towards_ Anya instead of away from her where the tree can form a shield.

Already in motion, Clarke turns abruptly and folds into Anya’s front before the Alpha can stop her. Without hesitation, she presses inwards, burying herself in Anya’s chest. Her head tucks beneath her chin, nestling their fronts together as her arms come up to curl against Anya’s chest and shoulders.

For a moment, Anya gapes in furious bewilderment, unable to believe that after all of this, the stupid sky girl isn’t even going to _try_ to defend herself, instead relying on her injured, exhausted companion to do all of the work.

Then Clarke’s hand moves to curl into a fist over the Alpha’s heart as the arrows fly faster, tucking her head in deeper to block the front of her throat, and understanding comes to Anya with a gut-wrenching tug to the heartstrings. A small, harder-to-trace flutter in her belly follows.

Clarke is _protecting_ her.

Anya can feel the hitch in her own breath with the realization. Clarke has strategically positioned herself in front of the Alpha so that Anya is protected from a direct hit — if someone takes a shot at her throat, her chest, or her stomach, Clarke’s own body will block the arrow’s impact. It’s the realization of the significance that has Anya’s chest fluttering. What Clarke has done is an ancient Omega instinct, deeply rooted in unconscious commitment and a desire to protect one’s Alpha. She’s only ever seen it in battle between bonded mates, and only rarely at that.

Some things are animal instinct, but other acts, like this, are even more deeply ingrained. In moments of danger, one’s most inner self takes control. Clarke may not be aware of what she’s doing, but her Omega is.

 _“Hod op!”_ The shout rings out down the gully. Through her bleary eyes, Anya can see that the archers have lowered their bows. One in front — she thinks it’s Indra — is holding her hand up in the air to signal the others to stop. _“Emo nou laik Skaikru!”_ The woman takes the rest of the short distance up the hillock at a jog until she is close enough that Anya can make out her face.

Indra.

“Indra,” Anya chokes out, and in the moment the words escape her lips, she becomes aware of just how bad of shape she’s in. The pain from the arrow in her shoulder is immense, and all of her previous exhaustion is hitting her like a wall. Difficult to support, too, is the sudden weight of Clarke, who seems to have gone partially limp in her arms. A quick assessment, more based on an odd sixth sense than visual information, informs her that despite her fears, the Omega has not been critically hit. Likely, the shock of her wounds and the sudden takeover by her Omega instincts has driven her into a state of shock.

Anya doesn’t feel too far off, herself.

“You’re alive.” Indra’s words are a statement more than anything else. _“Keryon, Onya,_ we thought you dead. Heda is coming; we must get you within the walls now. Who is this with you?” Anya’s head lolls backwards a little before she can stop it.

“Klark,” she gasps out, and finds that the word uses up most of the air in her chest. “Do not — harm . . .” she fumbles, the world suddenly going grey at the edges. Indra stoops low to grab her beneath her armpits.

“Do not pass out on me now, _Seken,”_ she orders gruffly. “Tristan! Get down here, now! Help me bring them through the gates!” A scuffling, and the tall, bald-headed warrior is beside them, peering into Anya’s tunnel vision worriedly. Without further words, the two steady Anya and begin to pull them down the short hill. When Clarke is pulled from her arms, Anya lurches, her hands scrabbling at empty air.

 _“Nou!”_ The exclamation is her own, but to her ears, it appears to come from far away as the rest of her senses begin to fade. _“Bash nou em op_ . . . Indra, do not — do not hurt her — ” Anya manages to mumble, and she’s reasonably confident that Indra has heard her. She’s struggling not to lose consciousness, but her eyes are closing of their own accord, and she doesn’t think that she can hold on for much longer.

There’s a shout, and the sound of a crowd parting as the gates to the village grind open. The world dips, then sways, and Anya knows she is about to black out.

Then cool fingers are grasping her chin, tilting her head upwards, and she can make out the blurry outline of small, pretty features and charcoal warpaint as green eyes narrow in concern.

“Anya?” Lexa’s voice calls to her worriedly.

Anya’s eyes roll back in her head, and everything goes black.


	2. The Enemy of My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Anya have reached Tondisi, where they hope to forge an alliance between Skaikru and the grounders, but any number of complications arise and threaten their attempts to broken peace. Clarke meets the grounder Commander. Lexa is just glad that Anya's home. 
> 
> There is no sex yet. There will be soon. Either way, I worked a lot on this chapter and enjoyed writing it, and I hope you'll read it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap.
> 
> First of all, I'm overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter. This is such an obscure pairing that I didn't think anyone would FIND it, much less read it and enjoy it. Your comments give me life, friends. Thank you.
> 
> I've decided to stick with Clanya for this fic. I know that some people wanted to see it become Clexanya, and I always feel the urge when I have these three in a fic together, but as several people pointed out, Clexanya has a lot of fics already. Clanya has distinctly fewer, and I'm really enjoying writing their dynamic. That being said, Lexa will still have an important role in this story and will remain close to both of them.
> 
> Also, some things I wanted to point out -- this story is AU in terms of the A/B/O component, which also means the dynamics between people are a little different. Relationships (families and friends too) aren't strictly canon, and neither is the plot, though it will follow it for a bit. 
> 
> There is no sex in this chapter. There will be eventually, don't worry, but for once I'm actually having fun with the plot, so . . . yeah. A/B/O is fun to write for sex (which, yes, is why I'm writing it) but I'm also enjoying figuring out how it fits into plot and character dynamics. There's a lot of plot in the second part of this chapter, but it's pretty critical for Clarke's character development. The first part of this chapter is pretty fluffy and Clanya-centric.

When Anya comes to her senses, it is to the sound of raised voices close by.  A quick assessment of her surroundings informs her that she is in Lexa’s tent, laid out upon the bed of soft furs.  Her head is throbbing, and so are her ribs, but a gentle flex of her muscles lets her know that nothing is critically injured.  Her shoulder pains her, and she notes the clean bandage covering the spot where the arrow hit.  Someone, probably Lexa or Nyko, has undressed her and wiped her down; she’s clad in one of Lexa’s oversized sleeping shirts of soft wool, and her body feels clean and — with the addition of Lexa’s scent — devoid, finally, of the mountain’s smell.    
  
As she begins to regain a full understanding of the events that have led her to be here, on Lexa’s bed, the shouting in the next room transforms from incomprehensible noise into sharp, angry words.  
  
“I told you that you were only to fire on _my orders,_ Tristan!”  Lexa’s harsh voice has risen to a dangerous volume.  “Not only have you injured my _best_ warrior, but you have harmed a visitor to our camp and thus put our relationship with the Skaikru, and therefore my people, at even greater risk.”  Through the curtain, Anya can see Tristan wince.  Undoubtedly he is resentful of the barb directed at his capabilities as a warrior, but this is Heda berating him, and he doesn’t dare speak his complaints aloud.  
  
“My apologies, Heda,” she hears him murmur meekly.  “She was wearing the clothes of the Maunon, and we saw clearly that the girl was the leader of the Skaikru _yongons._   You are aware, Heda, that we all thought the General to be dead; we assumed an enemy attack.”  The sudden blast of furious Alpha pheromones, only partially diluted from a distance, causes even Anya to shiver.    
  
“Clearly, your assumptions were incorrect,” Lexa snaps, and Anya feels Tristan cower at both her tone and the abrupt force of the Alpha’s fury.  “Now get out of my sight.  If you’re bound to be useful, tell Indra to post a twenty-four-hour guard around the healing tent.  I don’t want anyone doing _anything_ until we’ve straightened this out.”    
  
 _“Sha,_ Heda,” Tristan mumbles, and a moment later, a swish of the tent flap announces his departure.  Back in the other room, Anya starts to sit up, intent upon reaching Lexa, but falls back a moment later with a groan of pain.  There is a sound in the other room, and several seconds later the curtain is pushed aside to reveal Lexa in her cloak and trousers, face clean of warpaint.  At the sight of Anya, the knot between her brows smoothes out.  
  
 _“Anya,”_ she breathes out in a tone of pure relief.  With three long strides she has crossed the room, and a moment later, Anya finds herself pulled into her Commander’s arms.  _“Sweet spirits,_ Anya,  I thought I’d never see you again.  I should have known better, shouldn’t I?  It would take more than a vengeful _skai goufa_ to take you down; you’re far too old and grouchy for that.”  Her tone is light, teasing, but her hold is tight, and in its safe confines, Anya feels herself begin to break down.  
  
“You watch who you call old, _Seken;_ I could take you any day,” she grumbles, but her throat is suddenly tight.  The warmth and sturdiness of Lexa’s arms is wrenching to her soul after nearly a week of the constant pain and threat of death.  Here, at last, she is safe.  Pushing in further, she can hear the steady thud of Lexa’s heartbeat against her ear.    
  
After everything, it is the sound that finally causes her to break.    
  
“Leksa,” she chokes out, and without her control her hands are coming up to scrabble at the back of the Commander’s shirt, trying to find purchase in the fabric.  _“Leksa.  Jok,_ ai — _Leksa — ”_   It takes her a moment to realize that she’s crying, hot tears streaming down her cheeks and pooling in the dips of her collarbone, wetting the front of Lexa’s shirt.  She buries her face further into it, finding comfort in the warm crook of Lexa’s shoulder as her back shakes and her body is wracked with sobs.    
  
“Oh, Anya.”  Lexa’s words are a soft exhale against her hair.  Anya presses closer with the words, nose fully buried in Lexa’s jacket.  “Don’t be afraid any longer.  You’re safe; I have you.”  As Anya chokes into her chest, the Commander brings up her arm to rub her wrist against the back of the warrior’s neck, scent-marking her and allowing her own pheromones to ease the other Alpha’s pain.  It’s a rare act from her; she doesn’t do this for just anybody, but Anya is her mentor, her confidant; her oldest and closest companion.  She will do anything to ensure her comfort and safety.    
  
“I thought I was going to die.”  Anya’s words are muffled in the fabric of the shirt, but Lexa hears her anyway.  Her hand tights in the warrior’s hair in response.  “I thought I was going to die, Leksa — they are killing us, keeping us in cages and draining our blood, I thought my fight was over.”  Her voice is tight, choked with the fresh tears that soak through Lexa’s shirt.  “They are torturing us and murdering us to keep themselves alive, Leksa, we have to kill them; we have to kill them _all.”_   Against her, Lexa stiffens.  Sensing Anya’s need for continued physical contact, she doesn’t pull back, but her shock and fury is evident all the same.  
  
“They’re doing _what?”_ she spits, and then the floodgates open, and it all comes out.  Over the course of half an hour, through her sobs, Anya explains the fates of those captured by the mountain: how they are stripped of their clothing, doused in boiling water and a spray that burns their skin; how they are kept in cages and strung up from the ceiling to have their blood drained from their bodies.  How they are treated like animals, their humanity refused to be acknowledged.  Women, children, Omegas; everyone.  They take the strongest first, but no one escapes the torture.  She explains, too, about the _ripas_ and how they are created, how they feed on the flesh of those who are discarded from the harvest chamber like garbage, sometimes still half-alive.    
  
She cannot see Lexa’s face, but she can feel the rage boiling in the Alpha’s body, her fury and horror consuming her as she grips Anya harder and pulls her in close and tight.    
  
“They _tortured_ you,” she hisses once Anya has finished and her words have had a chance to sink in.  “They brutalized you and dehumanized you, and they will _pay with their lives.”_   Her fury permeates the air, but her words are steady in the way that Anya knew that they would be.  Already, the Commander’s mind seems to be racing to draft plans and send messengers so that they may organize their armies and seek revenge.  This is why she was so anxious to reach Lexa; the Commander will protect them, and she will intelligently and determinedly exact a plan of attack.  With her in charge, their people will be brought home safely and the mountain’s reign of terror finally brought to an end.    
  
 _“Jus drein jus daun,”_ Anya mutters.  The words have always been the code that they live by, but now they feel heavier than ever before as the weight of just how true they are sinks in.  
  
“Indeed,” Lexa agrees.  Her hand pets Anya’s hair, her wrist firm on her middle back.  Then her voice softens, and she strokes her fingers gently down the warrior’s spine.  “I am only glad that you have come home, _Fos,”_ she says softly.  “You would be the only person in history to escape the mountain and live to return home and tell of its horrors.  I only wonder how you managed it.”  Her words aren’t quite a question; Lexa seems to know not to push Anya to tell her story, but curiosity lingers behind them all the same.  Her care not to overstep hardly matters, however, for the moment the words leave her lips, Anya’s eyes flash open as she remembers the reason that she’s made it home alive.    
  
“It was Klark,” she chokes out.  Her words come out a little funny, still trapped in the leather jacket; Lexa releases her hold in response, and Anya pulls back.  She remains close enough to touch, but rears her head back to look Lexa in the eyes.  “Klark saved my life,” she says firmly, watches as Lexa’s eyes scan her face in interest and surprise.  “She found me in the — in the room of cages, and she broke the lock.  Helped me escape.  We ran together, and she found a safe place for us to stay the night, gave me food; she healed my injuries.  I would not be alive if she had not chosen to risk her life for mine.”  It’s a truth that she has recognized many times over the past several days, but in speaking the words aloud, Anya is hit by the sudden reality of them.  If Clarke hadn't saved her, hadn't chosen to risk her life for an enemy she barely knew, Anya would not be in Lexa's arms today.   
  
Lexa’s green eyes are alight with surprise.  
  
“The little _skayon_ healed you?” she says incredulously.  At Anya’s nod, her expression settles into something that is almost impressed.  “She knows what she is doing in healing, at least.  Nyko said that your wounds could not have been better tended to.”  Anya isn’t particularly surprised to hear it, but it isn’t where she chooses to lay her focus.  
  
“She wants an alliance,” she says carefully instead.  “She — she believes that we can work together to bring down the mountain.  I hated to consider it at first, but . . . I have thought about what I have seen, and I must agree.  Our armies are strong, but we cannot fight the Maunon without an understanding of their _tek._   Her people have that; they can help.”  Lexa pinches her nose at the words, scrunching up her face in what Anya understands to be a kind of irritated discomfort.  
  
“Anya, you are speaking of the people who have _murdered_ hundreds of our warriors, and burned a village full of innocents to the ground.  These sky people are the _enemy;_ not only are their children vicious and inept, but it appears that the rest of their people have descended from the sky in their wake, adults as well as children.  Their leaders are here now, their _gonas_ and their parents.  They will not take lightly to the fact that their children are at war with us.”  Anya was anticipating resistance.  Lexa is right, but what Lexa doesn’t know, what she can’t possibly conceive of no matter how graphically Anya describes it, is the true horror of what the mountain is doing.  No matter the Skaikru’s deplorable actions, the mountain is more important.  They will have to shift their focus.    
  
“From what Klark has told me, the children are not necessarily eager to encounter the new arrivals,” she counters.  “Some of them left parents behind, but the adults on their Ark sent them down here to die as punishment for crimes committed in the sky.  There is tension.  Besides, their people are trapped in the mountain, too, and from what I understand, their blood may serve the Maunon even better than ours.  We are not suffering alone.  They may be willing to listen to us and negotiate a treaty — on our terms, of course,” she adds.  Lexa is still frowning.    
  
“They are the enemy, Anya,” is all she counters with.  Anya shakes her head.  
  
“They _were_ our enemy,” she corrects, ignoring the basic rules that forbid anyone from speaking against Heda.  Lexa is her advisee, her protégé; she will listen.  “The _skai_ children committed war crimes, it is true.  But we have a common enemy now, one who is a greater danger to us all.  The Maunon must be stopped, Leksa.  Think of how it would be to be free of the shadow of the mountain, finally, after a century of fear.”  Her words are imploring, and they seem to partially do the trick.  Reminding Lexa of the fear they have lived in since the formation of the clans is effective.  They have suffered for too long, and Lexa knows it.  Anya knows that of all things she hopes to accomplish as Heda, freedom from the mountain is the very first.      
  
For a moment, Lexa sits in silence, absorbing.  Her face is stony, and Anya worries for a moment that she hasn’t managed to break through to her.  But then Lexa sighs, her face un-pinching a little as her shoulders drop, and Anya knows that she has won this round, if only partially.    
  
“Very well,” Lexa says stiffly, and Anya feels her posture relax.  “I have heard what you have told me, and I will consider Skaikru’s proposition of an alliance.  I promise you nothing,” she adds with a hint of sharpness as Anya’s lips lose their whiteness from being pressed together so tightly.  It is a victory, if a shallow one.  Their eyes meet, and for a moment, they watch each other closely, and Lexa’s eyes are troubled.  She brings up a hand to cradle Anya’s flushed, tearstained cheek, feeling the stickiness left behind by tears rub against her palm.  “I am happy to have you home, _Fos,”_ she says softly, and her words are gentle, her eyes soft.  “I am very glad you’re safe.”  Anya nuzzles into the touch, closes her eyes.    
  
“I am happy to be home,” she whispers, and the words almost make her choke up again.  Then something occurs to her, and her eyes snap open again.  She pulls back, searching Lexa’s eyes anxiously.  
  
“Is Klark — ?”  
  
“She’s all right.”  Lexa’s words are a little stiff, but she doesn’t seem angry.  “She’s in the healer’s tent with Nyko.  I have posted sentries there, for her protection and our own.”  Part of Anya wants to protest, but she understands Lexa’s caution.  The Commander cannot understand how it is that Anya has come, in the past three days, to have unwavering trust in the Omega, and even if she could, Anya doesn’t feel quite ready to explain.    
  
“Could — could you take me to her?” she asks hesitantly.  She knows that it seems strange for her to be so invested in the wellbeing of their former enemy, but a part of her is wound up with an anxiety that she knows cannot be relieved until she sees for herself that Clarke is safe.    
  
Something crosses over Lexa’s face, momentarily altering her expression.  There’s something in her eyes as she studies Anya that’s almost like suspicion, and Anya wonders briefly if she might already sense something of the truth of what is going on.  But then the Commander’s shoulders drop lower, and whatever shadow was obscuring her expression is gone as swiftly as it came.  Lexa replaces the mask of the Commander that briefly fell, her expression once more sweet and accommodating.    
  
“Of course,” she replies smoothly, and in the next instant is rippling gracefully to her feet with a small smile.  “Let us get you bathed and dressed, and then we will go and see her together.  I shall have to thank this _skai goufa_ for keeping my General alive.”    
  
Before they go, Lexa forces Anya into a chair and feeds her from a large plate of food that a young boy brings from the cooking tents.  Her hands — smaller than Anya’s, but tough with the deeds they have done, moisturized by the blood they have spilled — do not tremble as they lift the hot broth to her former mentor’s mouth, but her lips do. After, she bathes Anya, stripping her down to her bare skin and passing a damp cloth over the shallow nooks and crannies of the warrior’s body.  Anya lies still on her back upon the furs, unashamed to be bare before her companion, enjoying the gentle touch.  She allows herself, for the first time in many days, to feel a shallow sense of relief.  At last, she can throw off the weight of what she has seen and hand it to someone more fit to bear it than she.  She does not like to burden Lexa, but the salvation of their people is a cross that Heda alone must bear.  Her hands are gentle as she cares for her friend, but Lexa's brow is knotted with concern, distraught, and her eyes are distant and upset. 

To Anya’s immense relief, Clarke is awake and alert by the time they reach the healer’s tent an hour or so later.  Her face is pale and drawn, but her wounds are neatly bandaged, and Nyko seems to have given her enough herbs to alleviate the worst of the pain.  She looks a little grumpy, in fact, her face scrunched up in a pout that Anya can’t help thinking is almost adorable.  She lights up, though, when the Alpha enters the tent, and Anya feels warmth expand in her chest at the sight of her visible relief.    
  
“Klark,” she murmurs, and is over beside the cot before she can stop herself.  She’s aware that her actions might look a little funny to Lexa and Nyko, but frankly, she can’t find room at the moment to give a damn.  The last time she saw Clarke, they were both being shot at.  Realistically, she knows that Lexa wouldn’t have lied to her about the blonde’s condition, but a sense of relief spreads through her when she sees that Clarke is truly okay.  “You are all right.”  It’s a statement, not a question, and she can hear the relief in her own voice.    
  
“She’s a feisty one, General,” Nyko says gruffly from the corner.  “Been askin’ for you.  Says she won’t take her medicine till she sees that you’re alive.”    
  
“Yes, well, I _am_ among people who would be all too happy to see me dead,” Clarke points out wryly, struggling to sit upright as she clutches her wounded arm to her chest.  “Forgive me for being vigilant about the possibility of poison.”  Nyko guffaws.  
  
 _“Branwada,”_ he mutters, but Anya can see the hint of amusement twinkling behind his bushy eyebrows.  “I am a healer.  If I wanted you to die, you would die.”  Somehow, despite the nature of the statement, there’s a teasing lilt to his words.  Anya can’t be sure, but she swears that Clarke is fighting back a smile.    
  
“There will be no dying here today,” Lexa inserts herself into the conversation with a hard note of firmness in her voice.  Clarke’s eyes are on her in a flash, taking in the imposing figure that the Alpha Commander makes in the doorway.  Watching her, Anya sees her old student for a moment through Clarke’s eyes.  Lexa is clad in her cloak and armor, her warpaint freshly applied for this meeting with a potential enemy.  The image is striking; formidable.    
  
“Commander.”  It’s more of a voicing of recognition than anything else.  “I don’t know if Anya told you who I am; my name is Clarke Griffin.”  Lexa’s eyes flash.    
  
“You are the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive.”  Her voice is cold, her face unreadable.  Clarke’s, however, is equally impassive when she answers.  
  
“You’re the one who sent them there to kill us.”  Her expression remains fairly blank, but there is a charge behind her words that, if Anya were much younger and much less experienced, might suffice to make her shiver.  It’s audacious, speaking to the Commander in such a tone; dangerous, even.  Lexa studies her for a moment, her eyes hard.  Clarke’s gaze locks with hers, and for a long moment, they are engaged in a fierce staring contest.    
  
At last, after a tense breath, Lexa seems to decide something, and breaks away, moving to stand closer to the center of the room.    
  
“Klark kom Skaikru, I am Heda Lexa kom Trikru, Commander of the Twelve Clans.  I have heard that you would like to negotiate terms for a treaty in order to fight the Mountain Men.  Once you have recovered suitably from your injuries, I would like to speak with you more.”  Anya noticed the flicker of confusion in the Omega’s eyes at the use of her Trikru moniker, but Clarke doesn’t question it.  Instead, the set of her jaw hardens, her chin raising; though she keeps her expression amicable, she has devoted herself to appearing solemn and willing to negotiate.    
  
“Yes, I think we ought to,” she replies diplomatically.  Something twitches in Lexa’s face, but she makes no other reply, other than to nod firmly.  
  
“Excellent,” she says brusquely.  “In the time being, you will be permitted to stay here in the healer’s tent, and food will be brought to you.  I do not, however, suggest that you wander around or talk to anyone outside of this tent,” she adds sternly.  Clarke quirks an eyebrow at that.  
  
“Yeah, gotta say, I wasn’t about to risk it,” she says with a wry grin.  After a moment, though, she sobers up, and fixes Lexa with a heavy stare.  “Thank you, though,” she says sincerely.  “I appreciate your . . . willingness . . . to at least not shoot me on sight.”  At that, Lexa lets out a small huff.  
  
“Yes, well, I have heard that you are the one to be thanked, young _skayon.”_   Her words cause Clarke’s brow to pinch in a frown of confusion.  “I’ve been told that you saved my general’s life,” Lexa elaborates in explanation.  “Though you murdered hundreds of my warriors . . . I am willing to consider at least part of that blood debt repaid.”  Clarke, reasonably, while she shows surprise at the Commander’s words, doesn’t seem fully convinced.  
  
“No offense, Heda,” she says quietly — Anya notes the use of the Trigedasleng word with admiration — “but I hardly think saving one life is equivalent to taking three hundred others.”  Lexa, though she clearly isn’t pleased at being contradicted, appears to appreciate the honesty.    
  
“That is true, young one,” she grants with a hint of a warmer tone.  “However, you have saved the life of one of my people, and with it brought news of the Maunon’s truth, which before now has never been possible.  You have returned my strongest warrior and leading general to her home, her army, with valuable information — and to me.”  Lexa adds the last bit not as an afterthought, but in a tone that doesn’t quite disguise her personal stake in the matter.  She seems to realize this, too, for after a moment she shakes herself, straightening taller and allowing her face to fall completely impassive once more.  “I will instruct Nyko to send for me once your injuries have healed, and we will further discuss our terms.  In the meantime, I suggest you get some rest.”  With that, she lifts the tent flap and steps back out along with Nyko, allowing the material to fall back and leaving Clarke and Anya quite alone.    
  
There falls a moment of awkward silence, during which Anya does her utmost to direct her gaze at anything other than Clarke’s partially nude body.  The smell of Clarke’s pain and anxiety, while still present to a degree, has lessened considerably since Lexa left.  Still, Anya is uncertain.  Things were odd enough between them when they were alone together in the forest; now, among others — among Clarke’s enemies — it’s harder to read the air between them.  She finds that she is struggling to find something suitable to say.    
  
“Have you eaten?” is what she decides upon at last.  Immediately, Clarke lets out a breath like she’s relieved.    
  
“No,” is the response.  “Nyko said I was to wait for Heda.  I don’t know if he thought she might have me executed — though I did wonder why he would go through the trouble of healing me first.”  
  
Without pausing to respond, Anya whistles.  A moment later, a young boy — eleven or twelve years old, roughly — appears in the light of the tent flap.  Anya straightens her shoulders to make her request in Trigedasleng.    
  
 _“Fetch some food, please, yongon; the finest we have.”_ The boy — Trav, she thinks his name is — nods once obediently and steps back out.  Satisfied, Anya returns her attention to the injured Omega to find that Clarke is watching her intently.  For some reason, something about the attentive gaze is enough to make her self-conscious.  “What?” she asks, a little more gruffly than intended.  Clarke’s intrigued expression doesn’t change.    
  
“Your language,” she says thoughtfully.  “It’s fascinating.  Similar to English, but also not.  And to have evolved so quickly . . .”  Anya blinks.  Of all the responses she was expecting, an interest in their language wasn’t high on the list.  Of course, she supposes it makes sense, considering how invested Clarke appears to be in generating a workable union between their people.  Some knowledge of each other’s respective cultures will undoubtably be necessary if they are to forge a successful alliance.    
  
“I could teach you some.”  Anya startles herself with the offering.  The words don’t escape with any conscious effort, and the moment they’re out in the air, she wonders what would have prompted her to say such a thing.  A split-second later, though, she realizes that it’s not untrue.    
  
Clarke, for her part, looks about as surprised as Anya feels.  
  
“You — you would?” she parrots, and Anya wonders at the hesitance in her voice.  There’s a note of tentativeness there, something cautious that suggests the girl doesn’t quite trust the offer to be genuine.  Of course, it’s true that they’re still nominally enemies; it makes sense for them to be cautious around one another.  However, Anya would think that after all they’ve endured in the past roughly seventy-two hours, Clarke would be a little more inclined to see her more . . . hospitable side as genuine.    
  
“I . . . yes,” is the rather ineloquent response she comes up with.  Immediately after, she scolds herself for her lack of poise.  What must this sky girl think of Trikru’s highest ranking general who can hardly string together a proper sentence?  “It would be a wise decision,” she adds hastily, realizing her mistake.  “If you are to ally yourself with our people, it will be helpful for you to know some of our language.  Not to mention that some of our people may be . . . less inclined to accept your offer than others.  Making an effort to not remain ignorant might persuade them to take you a little more seriously.”  It’s nearly the most she’s said in one mouthful during all of their time together, and she sees the effect on Clarke’s face.  A series of rapidly changing thoughts presents itself on the Omega’s face, before settling into a pinched look of what Anya takes for concentration.    
  
“I suppose you’re right,” she says thoughtfully.  “What should I learn first?”    
  
Before Anya can collect her thoughts enough to come up with a suitable aspect of a complex language to teach in under five minutes, the tent flap whisks open again, snagging both of their attention.  Trav has returned, bearing in his arms a tray laden with food.  From the smell of it, it’s some sort of meat and vegetable stew of the type Anya consumed earlier, accompanied by fresh greens and a roll of hot, buttered bread.  Anya feels herself swallow compulsively; she’s eaten already with Lexa before coming here, but after days of starvation in the mountain, the sight of food makes her feel almost frantic.  She thinks it will likely be a long time before she doesn’t feel a little overprotective of her next meal.    
  
Clarke accepts the wooden tray with a murmur of thanks, before suddenly she holds out a hand for the boy to stop.  Trav halts halfway back to the door in confusion while Clarke casts Anya a questioning look. 

“Thank you?”  It’s directed at Anya, who takes a moment to understand that the question, not the gratitude, is being directed her way.    
  
 _“Mochof,”_ she provides, and watches Clarke’s eyes light up with determination.  She turns back to Trav.  
  
 _“Mochof,”_ she repeats, and Anya is pleasantly surprised to find that there is hardly a trace of an accent.  A small but friendly smile crosses Trav’s face.  
  
 _“Pro,”_ he replies before inclining his head and exiting the tent once more.  There’s a look of slightly anxious determination on Clarke’s face that almost makes Anya laugh; it could not be more apparent that she is attempting to commit the words to memory.  Her eyes drop to her food, growing wide when they take in the full amount.    
  
“What, uh — how do you say this?” she asks after a moment, lifting up the bread to bring it into Anya’s line of sight.  Anya can’t help the chuckle that escapes her.  
  
“You are injured in the enemy’s village attempting to form an alliance between two warring clans, and you wish to know our word for bread?” she snorts.  Clarke looks affronted; she narrows her eyes in Anya’s direction like a cat sussing out an intruder.    
  
“Fine, then, if you don’t want to tell me,” she huffs out.  She puts the bread back down on the tray with a disgruntled wrinkle to her nose, and Anya can’t help feeling a little guilty even as her amusement grows.  
  
“No, no, I do not begrudge you the word,” she amends with a slight chuckle.  “It is only that your priorities amuse me.  As do you.”  It’s not exactly a better choice of words, she realizes as soon as they’re out.  She cringes a little inwardly, wondering what barb Clarke will throw her way, but she’s surprised to find a slight quirk on the Omega’s lips.  “What?”  
  
“I amuse you?”  There’s something in Clarke’s eyes that Anya can’t quite identify, and it makes her a little nervous.  To disguise it, she shrugs offhandedly and keeps her face impassive.  
  
“Is that offensive to you, little _skayon?”_ she responds gruffly.  Far from being intimidated, Clarke only fastens her with a look of sly interest that’s far too intense for Anya’s comfort.    
  
“No,” she says after a moment.  “Not at all.”  Her eyes rove over Anya’s face intently, and the Alpha straightens abruptly, uncertain of how to respond to the unwavering curiosity.  She opens her mouth, wanting to respond but uncertain as to how.    
  
She is saved when a loud ruckus ensues outside, drawing the attention of both of them away from each other.  There is a chorus of shouts, a clatter of armor, and before Anya can rouse herself to peer outside, the flap bursts open and the tent is flooded with men.    
  
 _“Pauna!_   _Six injured, one dead!”_ is the only explanation she can garner as Nyko re-enters, swarmed by villagers who are bearing in their arms and on pallets the bleeding bodies of what she recognizes as a scouting division of the Tondisi _gonakru._ There is a chaotic flurry of movement as the injured warriors are laid out on cots, with a couple of stray _gonas_ lingering to shout explanations of respective injuries.  Nyko, for his part, is consumed by intense focus, descending on the most grievously injured armed with vials of medicine and what looks like about fifty rolls of bandages.    
  
 _“Need beds,”_ Nyko grunts in Trigedasleng as he hefts one of the young men onto the main table.  _“Take the girl somewhere else.”_    
  
 _“But — but where — ”_ Anya begins to protest, but Nyko has already swept them out of the way and is fully absorbed in trying to stop the blood gushing from the young man’s shoulder.  Turning in bewilderment, she looks around wildly for Clarke, and spots the Omega watching the proceedings intently.  Far from appearing frightened at the sudden influx of bloody warriors, she is sitting up straighter than she was earlier and is looking on in fascination.  She looks to be on the edge of her seat, as though there are words on the tip of her tongue that she wants to offer in aid, and Anya remembers abruptly that she’s a healer.  She’s a knowledgeable one, too, if the kind of attention she’s paying right now is any indicator.    
  
With a deep twinge in her chest, Anya remembers Tris, remembers shouted words about cannulas and poisoned blood and things that even Nyko hadn’t known.  It’s the kind of thing that will make Skaikru valuable in an alliance, she realizes.  Their knowledges of _tek_ and Old Earth healing practices, along with the medicine to carry them out, will prove a invaluable bargaining chip.  It’s a reminder of all the things the clans still don’t know about each other.  They are still veritable strangers, whatever a several-day jaunt in the woods may have made them feel to the contrary.    
  
Despite that knowledge, Anya finds that, rather than discarding Skaikru for their lack of similarities, she finds herself wanting to know more.  She wants to understand where Clarke’s people have come from, what codes they live by, what they value.  She wants to know what it was like to live amongst the stars.  She wants Clarke to tell stories of her life up on their Ark, to learn her strange words for Old Earth things and to know the people that she loves.    
  
Somehow, the wish makes them feel less like strangers already.  Anya doesn’t know what happened, exactly, to take them from enemies to allies in the past several days in the forest.  She understands, though, that seventy-two hours ago, she couldn’t have cared less what happened to Clarke.    
  
It’s unwise, but Anya finds that now, on the contrary, she cares very much indeed.  

* * *

In a fit of gallantry, Lexa bears them out of the healer’s tent and across to where the warrior’s tents have been set up.  Or, rather, she carries Clarke while Anya carts along the uneaten tray of food.  On any other day, Anya would not hesitate to undertake the task herself, but she has stitches in her shoulder, Clarke has stitches in her leg, and there’s the added variable of the stew, which Anya is keen should not be spilled before Clarke is able to try it.    
  
It’s a job quite unfit for the Commander of the Twelve Clans, but Anya has a specific reason for sending Trav to fetch Lexa with the request.  There is no one nearby available to carry Clarke other than the remaining warriors who survived the pauna attack and linger in the healer’s tent, but they’re all Alphas.  They’re all good men, of course, most of whom Anya has known for a good portion of their lives.  For some reason, none of that makes a shred of difference.  
  
She has absolutely no right to think it, but the thought of another Alpha’s smell on Clarke makes something curdle unpleasantly in Anya’s stomach.  There isn’t a single other Alpha who she trusts.  
  
Well.  Except for one.  
  
Lexa acquiesces to the request with a smug readiness that reminds Anya that she’s neither blind nor stupid, but neither, fortunately, is she nosy.  She will wait for Anya to say something first, Anya is certain.  While thankful that her heda will not be giving her away too soon, Anya finds that she’s more than a little disgruntled at the thought.  It’s disconcerting, at the very least, if only for what it implies.  Lexa knowing that something’s up means that something _is,_ in fact, up, and Anya’s no more ready to face that fact than she is to face the Maunon.    
  
When they reach their destination, Lexa waits for Anya to hold aside the tent flap before she shoulders her way in.  Moving quickly through the crowded space, she deposits Clarke on a wooden trunk.  Diplomatic and uptight as ever, she merely grants a nod and a simple _reshop_ before departing, leaving Clarke and Anya alone in each other’s presence once again. 

* * *

The Commander transfers Clarke out of the healer’s tent and across part of the village, through a sea of temporary war tents to one erected in the vicinity of a larger, heavily guarded one that Clarke takes to be her own.  She appears at Anya’s request, the latter having sent the young boy Trav in search of her.  She reappears and hefts Clarke into her arms with a slight smirk on her face that incites Clarke’s deepest curiosity.  The look is clearly directed at Anya, who only glowers slightly as she picks up the still-full food tray and follows them across the village.  
  
The new tent is small but spacious, filled with a number of necessities and smaller comforts that suggest its role as a traveling, temporary house.  Luxurious isn’t quite the right word to describe it, but compared to what they’ve been living in recently, it might as well be.  Mount Weather may have been decked out in the fanciest Old Earth technology and riches, but it reminded Clarke too much of the Ark with its steel and concrete and painful lack of windows.  After a lifetime in the sky, the ground has felt like a rebirth of Clarke’s soul, and being shut up in the mountain only enforced her need to be back out with the dirt and trees and clean, crisp air.    
  
The tent is the best sort of combination of security and freedom, she finds.  It is warm and dry while also having easy access to the open air, and though it is certainly weatherproof, Clarke doesn’t feel isolated from the outside.    
  
The only question remaining is what they’re doing in here.  
  
“Where are we?”  She poses the question once Lexa has left, depositing Clarke on a trunk to watch while Anya sets down the unspilled tray of food and moves to lace up the tent flap to fully cover the door.  It’s not like it really matters; they’re warm, and dry, and relatively safe, and there’s a full plate of food waiting for her, but Clarke has spent enough time lately being shoved into places without her explicit permission.  She’s not sure what it is about Ark and Mount Weather adults that makes them act first and explain later, but so far, the grounders fortunately don’t seem to employ the same policy.  
  
“We are in my tent,” Anya replies simply.  She has, by this time, fully laced up the door and is now fiddling with the buckles on her grounder jacket.  A moment later, seeming to feel Clarke’s eyes on her, she looks up.  “It is safest for you here,” she adds, sensing the unasked follow-up question.  Yes, Clarke realizes; it makes sense.  With Skaikru and the clans on such unfriendly terms, it would be risky for Clarke to sleep anywhere else.  
  
That doesn’t stop a small, inexplicable flutter from running through her belly at the realization that they are now fully in Anya’s space.  The whole tent smells like the Alpha; it’s a warm, earthy scent that has Clarke feeling more relaxed the longer she sits inhaling it.  It’s also filled with a number of personal possessions that, while Clarke doesn’t want to pry, she’s sure offer a good glimpse into Anya’s life.  She’s dying to leave her perch on the trunk to go and explore, but she’s also nervous and reluctant to overstep.  Regardless of what they’ve been through in the past few days, she’s still not entirely comfortable with the notion that Anya trusts her.  
  
“You can look around.”  A wry twist of the lips is shot in her direction, and Clarke realizes that her curiosity must be written across her face.  She feels herself redden slightly.    
  
“Sorry,” she mutters, and casts her eyes to the floor.  “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy.”  The last thing she wants to do while their alliances is still on tenterhooks is to get on Anya’s nerves.  
  
To her surprise, her words are greeted with a snort.    
  
“And would I have brought you into my tent if I feared an invasion of my privacy?” Anya asks with a pointed eyebrow raise.  “Had I known you sky people were so dim, I would not have considered an alliance.”  Clarke puffs up instinctively.  
  
“I’m not — ”  She cuts herself off when she sees the twinkle in Anya’s eye; with a start, Clarke realizes that she’s teasing.  A dull smirk is cast her way.    
  
“No, you are not,” Anya agrees amusedly.  “Though you are lucky that it is I you found and struck a deal with.  Others of the clans may not have been so willing to listen to your proposal.”    
  
No, Clarke realizes.  They wouldn’t . . . though there might be more significant reasons behind Anya’s patience with her than she can consider at the moment.  
  
“It’s lucky for _you_ that you’re the one I found,” she retorts in lieu of saying anything riskier.  “If I hadn’t . . .” she trails off, realizing as the sentence starts that there’s no good way to end it.  Looking minutely grateful for her tact, Anya nods.    
  
“We are lucky, too, that I am of a high rank,” she adds.  “They believed me dead.  Heda, however, ordered my tent not to be dismantled for another fortnight.”  Clarke studies her impassive face.  
  
“You mentioned that the Commander was your second,” she says hesitantly after a moment.  Anya’s eyes are fastened on hers.  “When . . . how did she become Commander?”  It doesn’t quite feel like an appropriate question, but Clarke is determined to learn as much as she can about the culture she’s going to ally herself with.  Showing some interest can’t hurt.  Alongside that, she can’t deny a margin of legitimate interest; this is the culture Anya grew up in, and she won’t pretend she isn’t at least a little curious.  
  
To her surprise, Anya lets out a small chuckle.  
  
“You will learn about Heda soon enough,” she says easily.  “For now, Klark, I would concern yourself with eating your food before it gets cold.”    
  
That’s right; Clarke forgot.  Her thigh still hurts, and she’s glad that Lexa was able to carry her across camp, but the food is close enough that she thinks she can reach it without too much trouble.  As if on cue, a loud growl emanates from her stomach.  Anya’s slight grin in response is knowing.  
  
“Eat,” she instructs again, and Clarke finds that in the close air of the tent, her voice is warm and persuasive.  The word falls like a command on Clarke’s shoulders, compelling her to move.  “Then you should rest,” Anya continues.  “It has been too long without enough sleep.  The village volunteers brought in bed heaters earlier anyway, so the furs should be warm for you.”  She gestures to the area behind Clarke as she speaks.  It is occupied, Clarke realizes, by a large bed laden with soft furs and several large, fluffy pillows.  “I will join you later, if you do not object,” Anya adds in a slightly lower tone.  Her eyes are brighter, it seems, against the plain canvas of the tent walls.  “There is space enough for both of us, and I am sure we would both like to get some rest.  For now, though, I would like you to eat.”  
  
Her words are like a warm blanket in the chilly fall air.  It’s not so much the fact that Clarke is being commanded than the fact, she realizes, that someone is tending to her wellbeing.  How long has it been since that has happened?  How long has it been, truly, since someone provided for her, without simultaneously imprisoning her, plotting against her, or clamoring for her blood?  In the aftermath of a year in jail, weeks of panicked survival on the ground, and the trauma of Mount Weather, the realization that she is being cared for is nearly too much to process.  
  
It’s a long moment before she realizes that her eyes are welling with the beginnings of tears.    
  
Embarrassed, she brings up a trembling hand to swipe them away, but Anya is in front of her before she can fully move.  Inhaling shakily, Clarke redirects her eyes upwards to find the Alpha gazing down at her with an expression that’s almost fierce in its gentleness.  Before she can speak, cold fingertips are brushing her cheek, catching the tears before they have a chance to fall.  Despite the ferocity of Anya’s gaze, the touch is unexpectedly tender.  Clarke finds herself drawing in a sharp breath.    
  
“What is wrong, little _skai gada?”_ Anya murmurs.  “Does something still hurt?”  Her words are sweeter than they have been yet, with the exception, perhaps, of the moment with the meat at the fire a night ago.  Biting her lip against more tears, Clarke shakes her head.  She’s not upset, just _tired,_ and struggling to process the emotions of the last . . . well, she doesn’t even know how long.  
  
“No, no, it’s just — you’re being so kind to me,” is the shaky explanation she manages to voice after a moment.  “I didn’t expect . . . when you said you would bring me to Tondisi to discuss an alliance, I thought I would be a prisoner, probably, if your warriors didn’t shoot me on sight.  I didn’t expect you to be so good to me.”    
  
Some unreadable emotion passes over Anya’s face, a shadow crossing her eyes.  A moment later, they harden into a look of steely resolve.  She crouches down, eye-level with Clarke, and fastens her gaze on her with an intensity that’s almost frightening.  Clarke sits frozen, hardly daring to breathe.  
  
“You found me in a cage,” Anya whispers after a minute of silence wrought with restrained emotion.  “You healed me, fed me, and gave me shelter.  You returned me safely to my people when I thought that I would never see them again.  You brought me back to the dearest person in my life who believed that my fight was over and that I was forever lost to her like the others she has loved.  You delivered me back into the world when I thought I would die without ever seeing the sky or hearing birdsong or feeling the dirt beneath my feet again.  A little sky Omega who only wanted to free her people, and gave me back the gift of mine.”  Her eyes are lost in Clarke’s as she breathes the words past hunger-thinned lips.  “Perhaps you do not yet understand the bonds that you have forged, but I shall uphold them, faithfully, either way.”  With that, she straightens up, pushing up off her knees and unfolding her body with a rippling motion that’s almost leonine in its grace.  “And now, if it is all right, I have words to share with my Heda,” she says in a slightly stronger voice.  “I shall return before moonrise so that we both may sleep, but the guards outside will keep you safe in my absence.  Do not forget to eat.”    
  
And with that, she side-steps away, out through the tent flap, leaving Clarke to sit shell-shocked and absorb everything that has transpired. 

* * *

“I told you that I had everything under control.”  
  
“And yet you went and nearly got yourself killed!”  Lexa rarely raises her voice, as now, when it remains at a volume that will not attract the attention of the sentries outside.  Nevertheless, her words carry a snap to them that would send even the most highly seasoned _gonas_ fleeing for the embrace of Azgeda.    
  
Anya knows better than to become combative when Lexa is in such an agitated mood as this.  Instead, she says nothing, watching the other Alpha pace the length of the tent with her hands folded firmly behind her back.  She knows why the situation has Lexa so roused; Anya’s death, after all, would not be the first time she has lost someone to a force over which she has little control even as Commander.  Unfortunately, it is not likely that it will be the last, either.  This instance, however, marks the first in which someone Lexa presumed to have lost — one of the few for which she deeply cares — has returned.    
  
When her old _seken_ halts a few turns later, coming to a stop in the middle of the tent and turning to face the throne again, Anya expects her to continue her lecture.  When she speaks, however, after a moment of silence, it is turning to such a different subject that Anya is momentarily derailed.    
  
“Are all of their Omegas like this?” Lexa asks tightly.  Anya blinks.  Lexa’s left eyebrow is twitching in a way that lets her know her feelings on the matter are far from settled, but the set of her jaw makes it perfectly clear that the conversation is, for the moment, closed.    
  
“It appears so,” Anya replies slowly.  It’s true; from what she was able to observe of the Skaikru, nearly all of their Omegas are drastically underfed, underslept.  They are weak and exhausted at best.  At worst, they suffer continual abuse at the hands of the Alpha delinquents who seem determined to find an outlet for their frustrations.  She relays as much to Lexa, with the predicted result.  A sharp shadow settles over Lexa’s features; her mouth twists into a thin line.    
  
“That’s not right,” she snaps harshly.  “Omegas should be protected and cared for.”  Anya’s eyebrows twitch up.  
  
“You think that I am not aware of that?”  It’s hard to keep her tone from crossing over to what could be considered blatant disrespect.  Lexa may be her old second, may indulge her in casual, friendly, or even intimate conversation, but there are certain lines that she will not tolerate being crossed when there is the slightest chance of their conversation being overheard by the general public.    
  
“It’s barbaric.”  Lexa fairly spits the words out; she has resumed pacing.  This time, her arms are swinging, which Anya takes as a sign that she’s growing tired.  Sometimes she wonders at Lexa's ability to keep her cool even when situations such as this arise.  The only way to combat it, she’s learned, and to keep Lexa on her feet, is tactical analysis.  
  
“Perhaps it could be negotiated into the alliance.”  She keeps her voice light as she posits the idea.  It’s less of an actual suggestion than it is a distraction; Lexa fights exhaustion with logic, whether it be sound or not.  It usually is.  The moment she says it, though, Anya realizes the potential value of the throw-away suggestion.    
  
Lexa, it seems, does as well.  Turning back to the main floor, she comes to a halt.  
  
“Elaborate.”  The word is terse, but doesn’t quite match the tension in her jaw.  She’s listening, at the very least.  
  
The words leave Anya in an unplanned rush.  
  
“The Kongeda needs Omegas, Leksa.  What was it — four Alphas for every Omega, at last count?”  
  
“Five,” Lexa supplies grudgingly.  “Breeding numbers are down since last spring.  Luna reported that she saw only six new Floukru Omegas present this season.”  Considering, Anya draws breath.  
  
“Precisely,” she points out.  “As you say, numbers are down.  Population is _declining,_ Leksa, not growing, and some people are starting to get worried.  We are not yet at the point where underpopulation will induce a panic, but within a few years, if there are not more Omegas, the clans will begin to suffer.  Skaikru could pose a valuable solution.”  Lexa’s head jerks in a noncommittal gesture.  Her nostrils flare.  
  
“Only if we are speaking of _numbers,_ Onya, but we are not; we are speaking of people,” she grits out.  “I will not have Omegas traded like chattel for the good of the Kongeda in order to forge an alliance.”  Something sears the inside of Anya’s chest.  
  
“Did I say anyone would be traded?” she asks sharply.  “Perhaps you are forgetting, Leksa, who was at the forefront of the movement to outlaw Omega enslavement in Azgeda.”  It’s not a low blow, not quite, but she can see the lines around Lexa’s mouth pale the slightest bit at her words.  She has avoided inciting wrath by not mentioning Costia’s name directly, but even the most roundabout hint is enough, still today, to make Lexa’s entire _being_ tense.  Seeing the haunted look creep into the edges of her old tutee’s eyes, Anya almost feels a twinge of guilt.  
  
Almost.    
  
“What do you suggest, then?”  Lexa’s tone is measured, but it is clear that she is having to re-center herself somewhat.  Anya judges about three minutes before she needs to let the conversation drop for the night.  
  
“I was thinking more along the lines of offering asylum,” she says calmly.  “We can protect them — provide for them.  We can teach them self-sufficiency and give them homes, if they wish.”  Lexa’s pinched look grows thoughtful. 

“You believe the _skai_ Omegas would desert their own people?” she muses.  Anya feels a clench in her stomach at the memory of Clarke’s assertion of her people’s treatment of their Omegas.  _Alphas get the best of everything.  It is the way._   She thinks of Clarke, of the strong, beautiful Omega who has never been cherished in the way that all Omegas should be.  An image flashes through her mind of hollowed cheeks, a body thin with hunger and exhaustion.  She remembers seeing another one — she thinks she was called Reivon — who was much the same, and injured to boot.  She thinks of all the ways their people could help, keeping these Omegas warm and safe and well-fed until they are strong and healthy once again.  
  
“Are you a deserter if it is your enemy you are leaving behind?” she poses instead of answering directly.  Lexa’s grim look settles her answer.  
  
“Are you, indeed.”  Silence falls over the two of them as they consider the ramifications.  It is nearly nightfall; the candles have been lit, and Lexa’s eyes sparkle with the light they reflect back from the steady flames.    
  
“Leksa, I — ” Anya starts, before cutting herself off.  There are any number of things she wants to say, but in the moment, she finds herself unable to voice them.  “I am glad to be home,” she settles on after a moment of consideration.  Lexa’s eyes blaze in the darkening tent.  
  
“And I am glad you are home,” she says in kind.  “And now, it is nearly fully dark.  Perhaps you would like a good night’s sleep?”  The question is entirely innocent, but her eyes sparkle with the words.  Anya feels her lips thin out.  
  
“I would,” she acquiesces, a little irritably.  Seeing her grouchiness, Lexa’s expression softens.    
  
“Good night, _Fos,”_ she says quietly.  Anya moves towards the door, but stops when Lexa’s soft voice reaches her.  “You know, Onya, that happiness is not illegal?”  It may be an odd way of phrasing it, but it’s a quiet acknowledgement of something Anya is not quite ready to recognize.    
  
“I did not ask for happiness,” she replies gruffly.  “I wish only for a warm bed.”  In the candlelight, Lexa’s smile seems almost wistful.    
  
“And neither is that illegal,” she says pointedly, before inclining her head.  _“Reshop,_ Onya.”  Anya’s jaw works slowly.  
  
 _“Reshop,_ Heda.”

* * *

 

Clarke is waiting when Anya gets back, still positioned upon the trunk that Lexa left her on.  She finished the food a while back, and found it a wonderful change from the drop ship fare.  Perhaps Mount Weather had chocolate cake, but the hearty stew and fresh vegetables proved more enjoyable than the fanciest mountain food.  She is tired now, though, but awaiting Anya’s return to determine where she should sleep.  She knows that the Alpha told her to sleep in the bed, but she’s not quite able to believe that she’ll be allowed.    
  
“You are still awake.”  Anya has noticed, it seems.  Clarke offers a noncommittal shrug in reply.  
  
“I was waiting for you,” she says honestly.  Something flickers in Anya’s expression.  Almost like recognition.  
  
“You still do not trust that you are allowed,” she says knowingly.  Clarke hesitates, then nods.  Anya’s eyes bore into hers.  “I assure you that you are,” she continues firmly.  She sounds sincere enough, but still, Clarke can’t help being trepidatious.    
  
“But a bed this comfortable . . .” she trails off with her protests after seeing the look in the Alpha’s eyes.  Anya smiles dimly.  
  
“The finest furs,” is all she says, parroting her words from the campfire.  Clarke can sense, though, that’s she’s troubled; the look behind her eyes is one of worry and something that looks a little like protectiveness.  It’s not an unappealing thought.  In fact, for the first time, the recognition of an Alpha’s presence has served to relieve her rather than bring about fresh anxiety.  Clarke is among any number of enemies here, not the least of them cold and hunger, but she has implicit trust — though on what basis, she does not know — that Anya will ward off any and all of them.    
  
Getting used to responding properly to good treatment will be one thing.  Accepting it, however, is already proving to be easier.    
  
It’s made even easier by the fact of biology, plain and simple.  No matter how much she’d like for her wits to triumph in a situation like this, Clarke is rapidly discovering that she has very little say in what her body would like her to do.  Despite it, though, she doesn’t find that it makes her actions feel unlike her own.  She trusts her instincts — to a large degree, at least — and right now, her instincts are telling her that she’s safe.    
  
Anya’s pheromones are no small help.  The moment the general stepped back into the tent, the warm scent of Alpha that already lingered there grew infinitely more powerful.  Right now, with Anya shucking off her jacket to prepare for sleep, it is so strong that it nearly makes Clarke dizzy.  Breathing in deeply as she sits, she opens her eyes after a long blink to find her head swimming.    
  
Anya, for her part, seems to notice that she’s not quite all there.  
  
“Klark?”  The sound of her name brings her to her senses, slightly, and Clarke tunes back in to find Anya watching her with an expression of thinly veiled concern.  “Are you all right?  Do you need help preparing for bed?”    
  
A quiet, involuntary laugh escapes Clarke at that.  If she’s this woozy from Anya’s scent alone, she can’t imagine what would happen if the Alpha were to help her undress.    
  
“No, I’m all right,” she gets out.  “I’m just . . . tired, I guess.”  It’s a flat excuse, and one glance at Anya’s face tells her that the Alpha isn’t buying it for a minute.  However, she seems to sense that now isn’t the moment to push, and devotes her attention to readying herself for bed.  Stripping off her second jacket and the weapons strapped to her hips, Anya lays them aside and begins to pull her shirt over her head.    
  
Clarke knows she’s gawking, but she can’t help it.  
  
Anya’s body is lean and soft, her muscles wiry rather than bulky, but with an unmistakable air of brutal strength.  Clarke hasn't given Alpha physique much thought before in her life, but watching Anya, it occurs to her that the warrior embodies exactly what she would imagine a female Alpha to be.  Anya's strength and the power electric beneath her skin are undeniably Alpha, but her softness, the subtle arch of her hips and the dip of her spine, are enticingly feminine.  Her skin is warm and sun-kissed, the same dark gold as her hair and eyes.  In the dim light of the tent, she almost seems to glow.  Clarke has seen her in various states of undress before — in the mountain, all of the prisoners were clad only in their odd mesh undergarments — but there’s something different about this time.  Maybe it’s the closeness of the small tent, or the fact that they’re not running for their lives; whatever it is, Clarke finds that it’s almost impossible to tear her gaze away.    
  
She does, though, when a low chuckle from Anya breaks her mind from her ogling.  Lifting her eyes, she feels heat rise in her cheeks at the realization that the Alpha is watching her gape openly.    
  
“Sorry,” she mumbles in embarrassment.  Anya smirks slightly.    
  
“Staring is not illegal, Clarke.”  The words hold a note of amusement.  Clarke, despite her best efforts, can’t help returning her gaze to the Alpha when she speaks.  Her eyes follow the lines of muscles, seeing the bruises left by the mountain and the freshly bandaged wounds from the tracker and Clarke’s knife.  Something swoops in her belly at the reminder of Anya in the woods, so desperate to get away that she was willing to rip into her skin with her own teeth.    
  
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”  Anya raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh?” she says simply, but her eyes are alight with mirth.  “And why do you say that?”  Clarke feels her lips thin out.  She doesn’t know what impulse drove her to say it in the first place, but now she feels the need to explain.  
  
“No one else I know would bite a piece of metal out of their arm,” is what she settles on after a moment.  It’s not quite what she means, and Anya seems to pick up on that, studying her intently for a moment in the flickering light from the lantern that swings from the ceiling.  Clarke wonders if she could have phrased it better, but after brief consideration, decides that it’s true enough.    
  
“Doing what you must in order to survive is hardly brave,” Anya responds at last.  There’s something uncomfortable to it, as though she’s trying her utmost to avoid being associated with bravery.  Clarke doesn’t quite understand it.  “You, after all, jumped off the top of a waterfall to avoid capture, did you not?” she points out.  Despite herself, Clarke smiles.  
  
“You jumped first,” she reminds the Alpha pointedly.  A slow, not-quite smile flits across Anya’s eyes.  
  
“I suppose I did,” she acquiesces.  After a moment, though, she fastens Clarke with a hard gaze.  “And now the brave must rest,” she says firmly.  “Sleep awaits, Klark kom Skaikru.”  And Clarke, recognizing the exhaustion in the Alpha’s voice, nods in agreement.  
  
“Where . . .?” she lets herself trail off, not quite knowing how to finish the question.  Anya eyes the bed behind her.    
  
“There, if I am not much mistaken,” she says with a bemused eyebrow raise.  Clarke feels her cheeks heat up.  
  
“Right.”  They stare at each other.  Then — “Anya?”  Anya waits.  Clarke shifts uncertainly.  “I uh — I might need some help,” she says quietly.  She doesn’t want to ask, but her leg is throbbing, and she’s not sure she can make it the short distance from the trunk to the bed on her own.    
  
Immediately, Anya is in her space, standing in front of her in a breast binding and a pair of tight shorts that Clarke takes for grounder undergarments.  Clarke swallows, the amount of golden skin on display in front of her a little overwhelming.  Up close, Anya’s scent is overpowering, musky and heated; it floods Clarke’s senses and tingles up and down her skin, making her head spin and her breath come more rapidly.  She’s sure it’s obvious; the quickening of her breath and the sharp inhale she takes aren’t exactly subtle, and briefly, she sees Anya’s lips twitch in a slight smirk.    
  
The hand that she extends is warm; slender but calloused and strong.  Clarke takes it, and allows Anya to pull her upright.  Immediately, when she puts weight on her damaged leg, she stumbles.  Her arm flies out, looking to grab something for support, but her fingers grasp at empty air.  Anya is there in a second, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling Clarke’s weight close into her body at the hips, leaning in and supporting the majority of her weight.  So close, Clarke can feel the press of her hipbones, the warmth of her thighs hot against her own.

She's never been quite so royally screwed.

Though she works hard to conceal it, the feeling of Clarke’s hot skin against her own has Anya reeling.  They’ve been this close before — while fighting, while in the ravine; in the river — but never have they been quite this calm.  Every other time, the air was fraught with tension, whether from Anya’s nightmares or gunfire or a fear of water snakes.  Their bodies were cold, weakened, their nerves strung-out and their minds on high alert.  Now, in the safety of the tent, Anya finds herself hyper-aware in a way that she wasn’t able to be before.  
  
She was well aware before that Skaikru did not treat their Omegas well, but that fact becomes painfully evident with close physical contact.  Clarke, though sturdily built, is clearly malnourished.  Anya doesn’t doubt that the Hundred’s time on the ground has been thin; they don’t know how to hunt, how to grow Earth food.  Anya’s scouts reported that the group has been living off what few animals they have managed to shoot and kill — cooking them poorly — and off of a few plants that two or three of the young people seem to know how to identify.  She remembers, too, Clarke’s assertion about the unappetizing food on their Ark.  _Synthetic protein paste._ Anya doesn’t have the slightest clue what that might mean.    
  
It makes her ill to think of it.  Whatever her complicated feelings towards Clarke might be — and they are complicated; she has acknowledged at least that much — the thought of an Omega being so poorly provided for makes something clench hard in Anya’s chest.  The clans are survival-oriented and always have been, and part of that necessarily entails bearing and raising strong children.  Omegas, who are best-suited for the job, must then be prioritized among citizens.  It is not seen as their only purpose, not remotely, but it _is_ critical.  They are ordinary members of the clans, taking any and every kind of position of power, leadership, or industry, while also being revered.  It gives meaning to the lives of Alphas to have an Omega to dote upon, to have the gift of such an important soul entrusted to them.  Their health and safety and pleasure is paramount. 

Someone should have cared better for the beautiful, headstrong, passionate woman Anya now has in her arms.    
  
It frightens Anya a little that she wants that someone to be herself.  
  
She excuses it for now, brushing aside the complexity of their predicament with the reasoning that they are, most likely, about to be embroiled in a war.  It would not make sense for her to take any action — to even _consider_ it — if one or both of them may die in the attempt to bring down the mountain.  That’s if Lexa even considers the possibility of an alliance; if the Skaikru even adhere to one.  There are so many things that could possibly go wrong, an infinite sea of mishaps, that it simply isn’t practical for Anya to allow her mind to travel beyond the present.  
  
She can act in the present, though, and in the present, Clarke needs her help.    
  
Moving carefully with her injured shoulder and Clarke’s wounded leg, Anya guides them over to the edge of the bed, keeping her arm firmly about Clarke’s waist for support.  There, once she has settled the Omega on the edge of the bed, she steps back to give Clarke room to remove her clothing.  The Omega does so somewhat shyly.  Anya doesn’t know what it is with these sky people that have been them so averse to the sight of one another’s skin, but she’s observed that there’s a certain amount of shame in baring oneself before other people.  Here on the ground, there is no such concern.  She hopes that Clarke will grow to be comfortable with that.    
  
The Omega is stunningly beautiful in a way that makes something warm burn in Anya’s chest.  Her skin is freckled and glows with the sun it has finally begun, after eighteen years of life, to absorb.  Her eyes are brighter than the sea that Anya saw, once or twice, when she visited the Floukru with Lexa to pay respects to Luna.  Her hair — brighter, golden in a way that has nearly ceased to exist upon the ground — evokes the thought of sunshine.  It is only fitting, Anya thinks, that this woman fell from the stars.    
  
It doesn’t take long, after that, for the two of them to settle in bed.  Clarke is stretching out against the furs in a way that makes Anya’s stomach tighten at the realization that this is likely the first time she has experienced a bed so comfortable.  The sight of it makes her a little sad.  It is beyond her comprehension to imagine a life without fires, without the musky, warm smell of soft furs and the sweetness of the air.  The earth is so much a part of Anya, a part of the clans, that their souls cannot be separated from it.  She is glad that here, finally, Clarke is getting to learn the things that make life on the ground more fulfilling, even in its brutality, than a half-life imprisoned among the stars.    
  
It is brisk, though, even with the several layers of furs.  Autumn is in full swing, and with it has come a chill in the air that appears when the sun falls.  It’s not yet bitter, but it’s cold enough at night to disrupt sleep, and after a few minutes of lying far away from one another beneath the furs, Clarke shifts on her side of the bed.    
  
“Um, Anya?”  In the darkened tent, Anya cannot see her face, but she can hear that she is tentative.  
  
“Klark,” she replies.  Clarke shifts again.  
  
“I uh — I’m cold,” is the quiet admission that comes a moment later.  Anya hears that she is nervous, clearly unsure of what to ask and how.  “Do you — I mean — are there any extra furs?”  Flat on her back, Anya stares up at the ceiling of the tent where a beetle is crawling up the canvas.    
  
“No.”  She leaves it at that, with no further explanation.  Through the dark, she can hear Clarke’s breathing shift.  There is a slight pause.  
  
“Oh.  Okay,” she lets out in a hard breath.  “Never mind, then.  I’ll just — ” she’s cut off when Anya rolls.  It only takes a moment to cross the short distance between them — careful not to roll onto her injured shoulder — before Anya is pressed fully against her, their bodies touching from ankle to collarbone.  Clarke doesn’t seem to be breathing.  “Oh,” she says again, and this time, the sound is strangled.  “Okay then.”  Unspeaking, Anya moves her body to curl around Clarke’s a little more firmly and presses her face into her neck.    
  
“Are you cold now?”  The words are a breath exhaled onto the warm skin of a rounded shoulder.  Clarke breathes out shakily.    
  
“I — no,” she says after a beat.  “I guess not.”  Anya’s eyes flutter closed.  
  
“Good,” she says decidedly.  “Now go to sleep.”  There’s another long moment of silence, during which she senses that Clarke is gathering her scattered thoughts.  Then —  
  
 _“Reshop,_ Anya.”    
  
Anya doesn’t mean to smile, but she does it anyway.  
  
 _“Reshop,_ Klark.”

* * *

It is the next day, at mid-morning, that the leaders assemble to discuss the proposed alliance between Skaikru and the Trikru.  The hope, originally, was to wait for Clarke’s wounds to heal, but the more hours they waste, the more of both of their people die in the mountain.  The matter is pressing, deeply urgent, and unfortunately cannot wait on healing knife wounds.    
  
They gather in the Commander’s tent, five of them in number: Lexa, Clarke, Anya, Indra, and Gustus.  The other clan leaders, Anya explains, will gather for another meeting regarding Skaikru’s status in the Coalition if an alliance is made and results in successful defeat of Mount Weather.  At that point, they will re-evaluate Skaikru’s status, and potentially offer them a spot in the Coalition.    
  
That is if Lexa allows Clarke to live past noon.    
  
Already, Clarke looks more Trikru than Skaikru, dressed in Anya’s clothes and clad in a blue, buckled grounder jacket to ward off the morning chill.  She has added a few braids to her hair, which is darker for not having been washed in several days.  Her posture is strong despite her wounded leg; though she moves with a slight limp, her shoulders are straight and her chin held high.  Something fierce glitters in her eyes, steely and determined.  She doesn’t look out of place among the generals of the Trikru.    
  
If this is what it will be like, Anya thinks, it may be easier for the Skaikru to be absorbed into the Coalition than first glance might imply.    
  
Clarke, she knows, is not necessarily representative of her people’s general population.  Anya doesn’t know the other surviving inhabitants of the Ark, but she has watched the Hundred in their few weeks on the ground, and Clarke is one of their strongest; one of their fiercest and most stubborn and survival-oriented.  Lincoln, before his banishment, reported back that she established herself as one of their leaders almost instantly, and that despite some rather bloody power struggles within the group, the rest of the young sky criminals seem to listen to her.  There is another of their number — Bellamy, she remembers — who is an Alpha, and who clearly took up the mantle of leadership as well, but Clarke seems to have endured in a way that other, more temporary leaders have not.  From what Anya has observed, she is kind when called upon, vicious when necessary, and possesses an intuition towards diplomacy and practical strategy that has kept more of them alive than anyone could have expected. 

If Lexa is to barter with any leader over an alliance, this shrewd but diplomatic Omega may nearly be her match.    
  
 _“Ai laik Klark kom Skaikru, an ai gaf in a kongeda.”_   Clarke’s words are slow, but her pronunciation is clear, and it is apparent that she has been practicing the Trigedasleng phrase repeatedly since Anya taught it to her at first light.  The two of them ate together, Trav returning with enough food for both of them to sit in Anya’s tent and enjoy a hot meal while Anya went over some of the more important points that this meeting would include.    
  
Lexa, on her throne, is as impassive as ever, but Anya detects a flicker of interest in her eyes.  She's fiddling with her dagger on the arm of the throne, as she has done since the day she ascended it.  Anya restrains an eye-roll.  _Show-off._  
  
“You wish to ally yourself with the people whose warriors you have killed, who have attempted to kill you in turn since the minute you stepped onto our lands?” she says coolly.  This time, it is Clarke’s eyes who flash with something almost like anger.  
  
“You are correct, Heda, that our people have not begun their relationship on the best of terms,” she says with a burning note in her voice.  “I can’t say that I’m particularly eager to make amends just yet.  However, we have to consider what is best for our people.”  At that, Lexa straightens up.  
  
“Yes, we do,” she agrees coldly.  Anya thinks she can anticipate where this is going, but so, it seems, can Clarke, who hurries to continue before Lexa can interrupt.  
  
“What that _means,”_ she presses, “is that we both have people who need our help.  Your people as well as mine are trapped inside that mountain, and the Mountain Men won’t stop terrorizing either of us until one or both of us are dead.  Neither of us can defeat them alone, but together, with your armies and my people’s technology, I believe that we can do it.”    
  
“And you are prepared to guarantee your people’s cooperation based on what, exactly?”  Lexa’s words are hard.  “What good is the word of one of you for the rest of your people?”    
  
It isn’t quite a smirk that crosses Clarke’s face at that, but almost.  
  
“What good is your word for the rest of _your_ people, Heda?” she challenges fiercely.  At that, Indra steps forward.    
  
 _“She will not speak to the Commander with such insolence!”_ she snarls.  A lazy flick of Lexa’s hand is enough to subdue.  
  
 _“Shof op, Indra.”_ Lexa’s words are a warning.  Indra quiets, but does not fall back, her dark eyes still fastened on Clarke in anger.  From her position halfway between the two parties, Anya stiffens slightly, on alert.  “The _skai gada_ asks a fair question,” Lexa goes on in English as though the interruption never took place.  “The answer, however, is a simple one: my people have implicit trust in me as their Commander to do what is right for them, and will do my bidding without question.  Where is your guarantee, Klark kom Skaikru, that your people will do the same?  Did the adults on the ship that recently landed not send you down here to die?  Where is your guarantee that they will do your bidding as my people will do mine?”  A heavy silence follows her words, one in which Indra’s labored breathing is audible from Anya’s position in the center of the tent.  For a moment, all of them are still.  Clarke, Anya sees, is staring up at Lexa with sharply attentive eyes.  If the Commander were sending out dominant pheromones, she gets the feeling that Clarke would be much more difficult than many to force into submission.  Lexa, fortunately, would never attempt such a thing, except perhaps with the argumentative Azgeda delegates.    
  
Watching, Anya sees that despite the determination lining her expression, Clarke’s leg has begun to tremble a little with the exertion of keeping herself upright for so long unaided.  A slight pang goes through the Alpha at the thought, but she doesn’t dare to move.  
  
“You are my guarantee, Heda,” Clarke says quietly at last.  The response isn’t what any of them are expecting; Anya can see Gustus’s eyes widen a little in visible shock.  Lexa leans forward on her throne, setting down the dagger she’s been fidgeting with since the moment they walked in.  Her posture, abruptly, is more attentive.  
  
“Explain,” she commands flatly.  Clarke’s eyes widen with earnestness.    
  
“If we don’t form an alliance, your armies will destroy Skaikru anyway, right?” she points out.  Lexa raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Indeed,” she says shortly.  Clarke nods as though that was the answer she was expecting.  
  
“Right,” she says.  “So, we’re helpless.  This alliance is our only chance of survival here — and if anyone among Skaikru breaks it, your army will kill us all.  That’s our leverage.”  Lexa’s eyebrow edges higher.    
  
“And you are confident that they will see it that way?” she questions.  Clarke’s eyes narrow in something that, once more, is almost a smirk.  
  
“Do you doubt your ability to convince them that you’ll kill them if they don’t?” she retorts.  “The only reason they would think otherwise is if they don’t perceive you as a big enough threat, and it is your sway, Heda, that matters there, not mine.  If they think that they can defeat you, who’s to say that they’re not right?”  Her words lack a taunting lilt, but her brazenness is enough to make Indra lunge again.  
  
 _“Arrogant branwada!”_  
  
 _“Indra!”_  
  
 _“I will not allow it!”_  
  
 _“It is what_ I _allow Indra, and not you, that matters here!”_  
  
 _“She dares to threaten the Commander — I will have her head — ”_   And despite Lexa’s words of warning, Indra steps closer, sword drawn.  Clarke looks positively alarmed at this outbreak of Trigedasleng, but holds her ground even as Indra advances on her.  When Indra’s sword moves to cut the air, however, before Lexa can hold her back, Anya has had enough.  She’s moving before she can even register it, stepping sharply in front of Indra so that she stands between Clarke and her old _fos’s_ advancing sword.    
  
 _“Nou!”_ Anya’s outburst startles them all.  _“Beja, bash nou em op, Heda.  Ai — beja.”_ Her voice is tight; she has placed her body closer to Clarke’s and is leaning forward with her fists clenched.  There’s something fierce in her expression, and for a moment, Lexa studies her, face unreadable.  Then — and it’s subtle, unnoticeable to anyone but one who knows her well — something tiny flickers in her expression.  Recognition.    
  
“I see,” she says slowly.  She keeps her composure, but Anya can see the light behind her eyes.  “Indra, stand down.”  Indra, however, doesn’t move; thrusting out her chin, Anya plants her feet more firmly.  _“Indra.  Chil yu daun.”_ A pause.  _“Nowe!”_   A long moment of silence passes, during which Anya and Indra hold locked glares.  Gustus has moved forward, closer to Lexa’s side.  Behind her, Anya can feel Clarke trembling with exhaustion.  
  
Finally, Indra scabbards her sword with a sharp movement, and with a growl, retreats to the base of the platform where Lexa’s throne sits.    
  
“Good.”  Lexa doesn’t raise her voice, but she has lost any signs of patience that she may have displayed earlier.  “I will not tolerate further interruption.  Klark kom Skaikru is correct,” she says, slightly louder, when Indra looks to grumble again.  “If her people do not see my position of power as legitimate, then there is hardly any point in forming an alliance.  She is also correct in her assertion about the mountain — there will be no victory over the Maunon without collaboration.  Now that Anya has returned to us and brought us the truth, we know what we are fighting.  Never before have we been equipped to face the monsters within that mountain head on; with the help of Skaikru, we may stand a chance.”  Abruptly, she stands, suddenly an even more imposing figure despite her slight stature.    
  
“Klark kom Skaikru,” she barks, and Clarke jumps, perhaps a little surprised at being addressed so directly after the earlier round of shouting.  “You have committed war crimes against the Trikru.  Blood must have blood, and three hundred lives is a great deal of blood to pay.”  Clarke looks slightly nauseous, but does not speak.  Lexa, having paced twice back and forth before her throne, settles with her arms crossed behind her back.  “However,” she continues, “collaboration must persevere in the interests of the coalition.  If you and your people are truly able to help us, and we are successful in freeing our people and bringing down the Mountain Men together, then I will consider this blood debt paid in full.”  
  
A silence rings out after her words.  Anya, who moved out of the way when Indra was dismissed, sees that Clarke’s mouth is open a little in surprise.  A moment later, she closes it and swallows.  
  
“You — you will accept an alliance?”  Her voice comes out a little squeaky, and she winces at the sound.  Anya averts her eyes.  Atop her platform, Lexa has fastened the Omega with a sharp, penetrating gaze.  
  
“Yes, I will,” she says after a moment.  “Provided, of course, that you agree to the terms we draw up following a short break for our midday meal.”  Weakly, Clarke nods; she appears to have gone limp with relief.  Anya has the feeling that in the wake of Lexa’s acknowledgment, she would agree to just about anything.  A sharp nod from Lexa follows.  “Excellent,” she says brusquely.  “And now, I will send one of my riders to Skaikru’s camp under a white flag with the message that we will arrive soon to discuss our plans for attack on Mount Weather; we will ride for their camp in the morning.  There isn’t a moment to waste.” 

* * *

The emissary to the Skaikru encampment returns shortly after dusk.  He was shot at upon arrival, he informs them — Indra grits her teeth — but after emerging from the trees and showing himself to be a Beta riding beneath a white flag, the gunfire ceased, and he was met by a man named Kane.  Seeing Clarke’s surprise, Anya questions her on it, at which the Omega reveals her assessment that having Kane as their people’s acting chancellor indicates that the old chancellor, a man called Jaha, did not survive the Ark’s descent to Earth.  There’s a certain sadness around her eyes when she says it, a slow sort of grief that Anya suspects is not prompted by the death of Jaha himself, but rather something else that has been brought up by association.    
  
Lexa’s concern is with whether this _Kain_ will be likely to cooperate.  Clarke considers that for a minute before admitting that she doesn’t know, but that it isn’t necessarily unlikely.    
  
“Kane is a fair leader,” she says sagely when pressed for a sounder prediction.  “He’s a Beta, so power doesn’t matter that much to him.  He won’t be thrilled to see you, but I don’t think he’ll refuse the terms, either.  He’s smarter than that.”  It’s not as much information as they would like, but it will have to do considering that their only line of communication with the Skaikru camp is a man on a tired horse who got shot at upon arrival.  Anya doesn’t begrudge Jon his reluctance to repeat the journey; he is a fine warrior who has never fled from battle, but she understands better than any of them the fear that the Skaikru’s _fayagons_ instill.  At least a bow and arrow is silent.    
  
Aside from that of the _fayagons_ and Kane, Jon also brings the news that Skaikru is anticipating their arrival in the next day or two.  The guards, he tells them, have been warned not to shoot emissaries or any other parties unless an attack is obvious.  This rule, he says, was laid down by a woman named Abby, to whom the Skaikru partially seems to listen.  
  
Clarke lets out a low cry at that, and sinks onto a log bench.  They’re gathered at the main fire area in the village that serves as a gathering place as well as a sort of communal dining room.  Dinner is being served by several of the villagers, who have taken it upon themselves to feed the army and the Commander while they are in residence.

“That’s my mother,” she says shakily when Anya asks what has occurred.  “She left me a message at the drop ship, but that was long enough ago that so much could’ve happened.  I wasn’t sure she’d made it.”    
  
“Your _nomon_ is alive?”  It is Lexa who voices her confusion.  They’re seated on a series of low benches to eat the pig that the villagers have roasted, and Heda has taken up a seat across the fire from Clarke.  “She lives, and yet you were sent to the ground alone?”  Clarke grimaces at the question. 

“Try, I was sent to the ground alone _because_ she lives,” she says wryly.  “She’s the one who turned my father in to be executed and who suggested that the Hundred be sent to the ground to extend life support for the rest of the Ark.”  Something like discomfort twists in Anya’s gut; the more Clarke talks about her people, the less eager she is to meet the rest of them.  Lexa seems to feel similarly, for she sets down her plate as she leans forward with curiosity in her eyes.  
  
“And why were you among them?” she wants to know.  At Anya’s side, Clarke shifts a little in her seat.  She meets Lexa’s eyes, though, over the flames that leap through the dark autumn air.  
  
“Because I committed a crime,” she says honestly.  “My father discovered that the Ark was dying and wanted to tell everyone.  The Council disagreed, and when my father tried to go ahead anyway, they had him executed.  I was going to tell them myself, so I was arrested.  They would have executed me too, but I was underage, so they kept me in solitary until they sent us down here.  Getting rid of us gave more oxygen to the rest of them, and they could afford to send us because we were criminals.  We were . . . expendable.”  Silence follows her words, in which a log settles further into the embers with a muted crunch.    
  
At last, Lexa picks up her plate once more.  
  
 _“If the Maunon do not kill these people, Onya,”_ she mutters in Trigedasleng, _“I think we may have to do it ourselves.”_  
  
 _“You make the rules, Heda,”_ Anya replies stiffly.  Over the crackling fire, she sees Lexa shoot her a grin.

* * *

They leave at first light.    
  
It’s a day’s journey from Tondisi to the Ark’s encampment — Jon informs them that its name is Camp Jaha — on horseback.  The Commander wants to make it in half.  Clarke understands her urgency — she of all people — but the hope isn’t realistic.  She more than anyone wants to reach Camp Jaha, work out a temporary alliance, come up with a battle plan, and storm the mountain and free their people.  She wants it yesterday.  She knows exactly how desperate Anya is to end this, and the Commander as well, but the reality of it is more complicated.  As much as they all want to get going, the fact of the matter is that there’s no way they can make a full day’s journey on horseback in six hours going at anything less than a canter.  Their best hope will at most be a brisk trot.  Far from being a single messenger like Jon, their party will be made up of the Commander, two generals — one of them injured — a full guard detail, and a wounded ambassador who has never been within spitting distance of a horse.    
  
Indra is going to lose her mind.    
  
The upside is that at least the Commander didn’t try to make them leave last night.  If she truly thought the journey could be made in six hours, Clarke could have seen the Commander ushering everyone to the horse paddock to get moving.  Fortunately, disgruntled by Indra and Anya’s grim prophecies of encountering reapers in the darkened woods, she yielded, and informed them instead that they would be leaving at first light.  It gave them time, at least, to sleep — time that Clarke treasures, for in the stress of the past week or more, she’s hardly had any time to rest.    
  
Thus, it is with a few more hours of sleep under her belt that Clarke follows Anya to the horse paddock at an hour slightly before dawn.  The sun is sifting through the fog in the eastern sky, not yet beginning to burn away the chill and damp that settled on the ground during the night.  The sun seems a different color here, tinted more yellowish by the atmosphere and a little softer, less stark and harsh than as seen from the windows of the Ark.  It’s a sight that, even after several weeks on the ground, Clarke still has yet to get accustomed to.  She still remembers the magic of the first sunrise she ever saw, several weeks ago; the soft, brilliant awe of the breaking day.  
  
When they arrive — Clarke limping behind Anya on a pair of makeshift crutches cut from birch branches — it is to find the Commander standing beside her horse, accompanied by the Betas Gustus and Indra who were present for the alliance negotiations yesterday.  Like yesterday, the Commander wears her warpaint.  In the early dawn light, Clarke finds the sight slightly foreboding.  No matter how peaceful their dealings have been in the past twenty-four hours, the presence of the ash still sends a message, loud and clear.  An alliance with _Clarke_ has been cemented, but one has yet to be made with the rest of the survivors of the Ark.  Nominally, their clans are still at war.    
  
Upon their arrival, the grounders waste no time.  The Commander, nodding at them, swings herself up onto her horse with an easy grace that leaves Clarke distinctly jealous.  She doesn’t see how she’s going to get herself up onto a horse on her own, particularly with her injured leg.  The wound in her thigh isn’t deep, but the arrow nicked her muscle, and the stitches have left her with a raw, deep ache.  There’s a similar burn in her upper arm, where the second arrow buried itself a little deeper, but missed the muscle by a fraction of an inch.  
  
She doesn’t regret it, thinking of what could have happened if she hadn’t moved in front of Anya when she did.    
  
Clarke doesn’t have the energy right now to consider the impulse behind what she did on the outskirts of Tondisi.  At the moment, her primary concern is finessing this alliance in order to successfully rescue her people and Anya’s from Mount Weather, eliminating the mountain as a threat in the process.  She doesn’t have time to pick apart her actions, to examine her thoughts, or try to interpret the new and powerful instincts that she finds herself consumed with in the past few days.  All she knows is that there is something, _something_ going on between her and Anya, something that may blossom further, if they permit it, but right now, they don’t have time.  Her first and only focus is and must remain Mount Weather.  Perhaps after, if they are successful, she can consider the implications a little more deeply.    
  
That focus doesn’t stop her from feeling it, though.    
  
It has evidently occurred to Anya that hoisting herself up onto a horse isn’t an available option to Clarke in her current state.  There is a white stallion that has been left for her, but Clarke has lingered near it, touching its flank and uncertain of how to proceed.  It is as she strokes the animal’s mane that Anya appears at her side, suddenly tall up close and alarmingly warm in the pre-dawn chill.    
  
“You will have to grab its mane,” she says preemptively, “and swing your leg over as I hoist you up.  I will help you lift yourself, but your momentum will do most of the work for you, yes?”  Numbly, Clarke nods, a little dizzy with the Alpha’s scent but trying her utmost to remain focused and not let it show.  “All right.  Three, two — ”  There are warm hands grasping her ankles before Clarke can even register what’s happening.  Anya lifts her with a grunt of exertion as her stitched shoulder strains, and Clarke is scrambling for a grip as her leg swings over the back of the horse.  A moment later, she is upright atop the horse, blinking into the ray of sun that has just broken over the tops of the nearby pine trees.    
  
“You see?  Nothing to it.”  Anya isn’t quite grinning, but there’s something light in her gaze just the same.  Clarke finds herself swallowing reflexively as she looks down at the Alpha’s expectant expression.  Stoically, she nods.    
  
 _“Mochof,”_ she says quietly.  A slow nod is her only response, but there is something unreadable in the closed expression that watches her solemnly.  In the dawn light, Anya’s eyes are burning.    
  
“Let’s get moving!”  Lexa’s shout breaks Clarke’s gaze away; reluctantly, she turns her attention to the mane of her horse, where someone has affixed a rough rope to function as reins of a sort.  Uncertainly, she grips them with the gloves that Anya lent her this morning as they dressed.  They’re a little big; they leave space in the tips of her fingers.    
  
Nearby, Anya swings herself up onto her charcoal-colored horse in a fluid moment; a moment later, the guards cluck to their horses, and they’re off.    
  
The first thought that comes to mind as Clarke’s horse takes off across the pasture is that, even with the ground a few feet below, the movement feels like flying. 

* * *

However eager Clarke was to start out, the freshness of the morning soon fades, and by early afternoon, the novelty of horseback riding has long since worn off.  Her butt is sore, her thigh aches, and despite the tightly fastened riding cloak that Anya bundled her into at dawn, the dampness of the day has settled into her skin, exacerbated by the wind brought by their speed.  They’re not even moving that fast — certainly not as fast as Lexa would like — but the horse’s movement is uncomfortable all the same.  It’s awkward to hold herself in such a position for so long, and her lower back has been feeling cramped since before the sun hit its highpoint a few hours ago.    
  
According to Lexa, they have about seven miles still to go before they reach Camp Jaha.  Clarke can’t be sure, but she thinks she recognizes some of the terrain they’ve covered in the past twenty minutes or so.  They’re giving the mountain’s territory a wide berth, instead passing on the outskirts of some smaller grounder villages.  They’re smaller than Tondisi, usually groupings of five to ten small huts, but the villagers emerge when they pass, shouting greetings in Trigedasleng and inclining their heads respectfully at the sight of Lexa astride her horse.  
  
It only further incites Clarke’s curiosity about the young Trikru Commander.  She remembers Anya’s words: _Heda is scarcely of twenty summers._   The warpaint adds an element of ferocity that Clarke thinks likely adds some years as well; without it, she has a feeling the Commander would look even younger.  Lexa is hardly two years older than Clarke herself.  It’s an odd thought to consider.  Clarke, at least, was put in her position of leadership by necessity; at a month away from her execution at the time of the drop, she’s the eldest of the Hundred, the third oldest of all hundred-and-two of them after Bellamy and Raven.  That and her assertiveness and pragmatism brought her into a position of power almost instantly on the ground.  
  
She doubts that Lexa found herself Commander for similar reasons.  From what she has gathered in the past two days, grounder politics are far more complicated than the Hundred ever could have imagined.  The clans each have a leader, though how they are elected varies according to clan; all, however, answer to Lexa.  Guards follow the Commander everywhere, and Gustus shadows every step she takes.  The symbol she wears upon her forehead, too, is not borne by anyone else that Clarke has seen, which Clarke takes to indicate that it is the right of the Commander alone to wear it.    
  
How a twenty-year-old girl became the Commander of Earth’s remaining human population, complete with twelve clans, armies, and a complex political structure, is a mystery, and one that Clarke is interested to learn.  Perhaps, once this war is over and their alliance cemented, Lexa will be willing to share the story of their people.    
  
That’s assuming that any of them survive.    
  
If they do survive, Skaikru will likely be absorbed into the Coalition.  It is one of their agreed-upon terms, to be renegotiated after their victory, if there is one.  It’s the only option that makes sense; the Ark survivors are by no means self-sufficient, and despite what Clarke knows they’d like to think, they are invaders on Trikru lands.  As the thirteenth clan, they will be able to trade, not just food and supplies but knowledge; medicine, technology.  Skaikru can’t survive alone, and Clarke is determined that they shouldn’t have to.  Just because they got off on the wrong foot with the grounders doesn’t mean that they can’t make amends.  She knows that their laws are fairly brutal, _blood must have blood_ and all that, but surely they can work something out.  Maybe they can even learn, not just how to coexist without killing each other, but how to exist _together._    
  
She’s about to urge her horse forward to question Anya more about grounder politics when a volley of gunshots rips out from the nearby trees.  
  
In a second, the party breaks ranks.  The guard traveling in front of Clarke is hit, and topples sideways off his horse with a yell; spooked, the animal rears up, causing Clarke’s own mount to come to a halt so abrupt that Clarke is thrown forward.  For a moment, the world is upside-down as she flips over the animal’s neck, to land hard on the ground a second later with a force that knocks the air from her lungs.  Wheezing, she clutches her stomach and rolls away from where her horse is stamping the ground in fear.    
  
Around her, chaos has broken out; three of the seven guards have been hit, while the remaining four break ranks and have their weapons drawn.  Gustus has ripped Lexa from her horse; the two of them are nowhere in sight, their mounts rearing and neighing in panic at the loud noise and theirs riders’ disappearance.  Indra has shot forward, accompanied by one of the guards; the other three are scanning the trees with their bows drawn and ready to shoot.  Indra’s sword is out.  
  
The guns are still firing, becoming an ear-piercing ripple that breaks up the otherwise still air.  As Clarke looks around wildly, attempting to find the source, the black stallion races past her; in the moment when it passes in front of her body, Anya leaps from its back, landing beside Clarke in the grass.  
  
 _“Get down!”_ she yells over the unceasing sound of gunshots.  _“They are shooting from below; they cannot see you in the tall grass!”_ Clarke barely has a moment to register her words before the Alpha’s hand seizes her by the back of her cloak, lifting her with surprising brute strength and pulling her off the main trail.  Along the edge, a meadow of tall grass is ringed by short pine trees, and it is beneath their branches that Anya drags her, shoving her down hard and forcing her face into the dirt.  “Keep your head _down!”_ she shouts; Clarke attempts to holler back that she should do the same, worried at the Alpha’s exposure, but Anya has thrown herself behind the white pine before Clarke has the chance to express her fear.  Her sword, too, is out, but Clarke doesn’t see how she’s going to get close enough to be able to use it; from what she can tell, the gunshots are coming from the trees across the path.  
  
It’s odd that their attackers are using gunfire.  They’re far enough out from the mountain’s territory, and lack of red gas doesn’t make sense for it to be the Mountain Men.  The rest of the Hundred are locked up in Mount Weather, so the only other people with guns would be . . .  
  
Clarke’s belly swoops.  It doesn’t make sense, given what the messenger Jon told them about emissaries being given safe passage into Camp Jaha, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense.  All of the Hundred’s guns were confiscated during the attack by the Mountain Men, but the Ark would have some left.  From what it sounds like, only a couple stations survived the full descent to Earth, but some guards from the Council had to have made it.    
  
If it really is the Arkers shooting, this alliance is going to be broken before it’s even fully formed.    
  
Clarke only has a few moments to puzzle out the situation before it’s over, just as suddenly as it began.  The gunfire ceases, and in the silence, Clarke raises her head to see that Indra and the guards have vanished.  A moment later, a pained yell sounds out from the trees about twenty yards away.  An answering shout issues from back in the direction they were traveling from, to be followed shortly by the sight of Lexa and Gustus jogging back up the trail.  Anya’s grip on her sword remains firm, her eyes trained on the nearby trees.    
  
Then Indra and the guards reemerge from the tree line, and Clarke’s heart sinks to her feet when she realizes who they have in tow.  
  
It's Finn.

* * *

Of course, it figures that of all people, _John "I'll Save Myself" Murphy_ is the one in this case who tried to do the right thing.  He’s clearly out of practice, because it didn’t work out in the slightest, except that maybe slightly fewer people are dead as a result of him latching desperately onto Finn and throwing off his aim.  From what Clarke has gathered from his frantic yells as the guards dragged the two of them into the middle of the travelers, he tried his utmost to stop Finn from shooting at them.  The fact that Clarke didn’t get hit wasn’t so much purposeful as it was a happy coincidence, because Finn’s aim from a distance is shoddy at best.  He claims to have known that she was among the party, however, and to have been picking off the others in an effort to rescue her.  
  
Finn.  Finn, who now kneels in the dirt with his cheek and both eyes bruised, bleeding from the nose and a large gash on his forehead and with dirt smeared across his face.  Murphy is in slightly better shape only because he didn’t put up a fight during capture; he’s still sporting a wound or two, but Clarke thinks that they might be a couple days old judging by the darkened blood.  He, at least, has the decency to keep his eyes downcast in shame.  Whatever Murphy’s problem may be, at least he has a sense of self-preservation.  Finn, it seems, has gone completely off the rails.    
  
The Commander is furious.  
  
In the past few minutes, she has hardly raised her voice, her words instead shockingly low and level.  She stands completely unmoving before the two kneeling prisoners, arms folded behind her back, glaring down at them with a mild sort of hatred that’s truly alarming.  She’s surprisingly calm for someone who has just been shot at.  Seeing it, Clarke recognizes that it’s probably hardly the first time such a thing has befallen the Commander.  With twelve clans beneath her governance, it is more than likely that attempts on her life are common; routine, even.  
  
Clarke has never seen her look more terrifying.    
  
“I hope you understand,” Lexa is saying with a freezing sort of anger in her voice, “that the only reason you are not yet bleeding out on this trail is so that you can explain just what you thought you were going to accomplish by shooting at us.  After that, you will be executed and left for the woods creatures to eat.”  Clarke winces.  Part of her wants to protest, at least on Finn’s behalf if not Murphy’s, but something is holding her back.  She can’t quite put a finger on it, but there’s something instinctive that seems to be telling her that something about this situation is off.    
  
“I told you, we were trying to rescue Clarke from _you_ people,” Finn shoots back roughly.  “We left Camp Jaha as soon as we could to come find her.  We’ve been trying to look for her ever since everyone disappeared.  We were just going to head in the direction of Mount Weather when we heard your horses.”    
  
“So your people sent you out with guns to take her back?” Lexa asks sharply, and Clarke’s heart sinks.  If that’s what happened —  
  
“No,” Finn admits gruffly.  “They didn’t want us to leave; we had to sneak out.  It’s a good thing we did, though, otherwise Clarke would still be a prisoner!”  To Clarke’s surprise, it’s Murphy who responds to that.  
  
“Sorry, bud, but look at her,” he snorts.  “She’s wearing grounder clothes.  Does she look like a prisoner to you?”    
  
“Shut up, Murphy!” Finn snaps, but Clarke inserts herself into the exchange before he can let anything else incriminating leave his mouth.  Lexa’s already going to kill him if she doesn’t say something; she might as well make an attempt.  
  
“Murphy’s right, Finn,” she tells him, and she has to ignore the look he gives her, like she’s just slapped him across the face.  “I’m not a prisoner.  _Mount Weather_ made us prisoners, and it’s only thanks to Anya that we escaped at all — ”    
  
“Anya who tried to _kill_ us, in case you’ve forgotten,” Finn interrupts her to point out.  Behind her, she can feel Anya stiffen slightly.  Even in this tense moment, the need to reassure her is instinctive, but Clarke pushes it down.  Now isn’t the time.    
  
“That was over a week ago, Finn,” Clarke retorts, and she can feel an edge of sharpness slipping into her voice.  Any other time, she’d be grateful that he came looking for her, but three innocent people are _dead_ , and he’s sitting here defending himself like wanting her back excuses that sort of violence.  So much has happened in the past week, and he’s refusing to acknowledge any of the things that have changed even when those things have resulted in an alliance that is hopefully going to save their people.  She’s losing patience.  “I went with Anya willingly,” she continues, watching his expression get uglier with every word that leaves her mouth.  “She helped me reach Tondisi to talk to their Commander, and because of that, we’ve been able to make an alliance so that we can fight Mount Weather and get our people back!  And we were on our way to Camp Jaha to negotiate with Kane so that we can fight together, but you were so obsessed with finding me that you’ve just ruined any chance we have of making peace!”    
  
Finn looks like she’s kicked him.  Clarke braces herself, expecting him to respond with something biting and obtuse, but he manages to surprise her.  
  
“Why would we fight Mount Weather?” is what he asks carefully instead.  For the first time, instead of being angry, he looks genuinely curious and unnerved.  “I thought that we were trying to get there all along to get supplies.”  For a moment, his expression is one of concern, and he looks the way Clarke remembers him before; like a worried boy who wants to do the right thing.  It makes her heart ache.    
  
Heaving a heavy sigh, Clarke braces herself, and relates everything: their capture, the harvest chamber, the reapers; how the people inside Mount Weather will stop at nothing to make themselves immune to the radiation and step outside, and what they’re prepared to do in order to make that happen.  By the time she finishes, Finn’s face is alight with horror, but also with a steely determination that makes her stomach feel weighted down with lead.    
  
“So we’re going to go rescue our people — ”    
  
 _“All_ our people, Finn,” she cuts him off to correct pointedly.  “Many of the clans have people inside the mountain, too.  That’s why we need to work together to get them out.”  Something in Finn’s eyes flattens.    
  
“Yeah, but they’re just grounders,” he says offhandedly.  “What does it matter if the Mountain Men are killing them?  We’ve been trying to kill them too; sounds like we’ve got the same idea.”    
  
At that, Indra, who up until this moment has maintained a stony silence, lurches forward with a growl.    
  
 _“Joken skai natrona!  Ai gaf in gon frag em op — ”_  
  
“Hey, back off, woman!”  It’s Murphy, who breaks his passive stillness in order to lean backwards as far as possible.  “Kill the guy who shot people, not the guy who tried to stop him!  At least I made him stop before he massacred the entire village!”  That halts Indra in her tracks.  Behind Clarke, Anya is frozen, and at her side, Lexa has drawn herself up to her full height.  Even Gustus looks perturbed.    
  
“What?” Lexa asks quietly.  The danger in her tone is palpable, and it’s accompanied, for the first time, by a hint of Alpha pheromones.  It’s only a slight surge, but it’s enough to spark a twinge of fear in Clarke’s belly.    
  
Finn is glaring fiercely at Murphy, who seems to sense he may have said something he shouldn’t.  Even so, he ignores Finn, and directs his words for the first time to Lexa.    
  
“We found a grounder village earlier today when we were looking for Clarke,” he admits in a quieter voice than before.  “They had some clothes that the people who went missing from the drop ship were wearing — I guess they found them somewhere.  Finn thought they had Clarke, so he kind of . . . locked people up and interrogated everyone at gun point.  They said they didn’t have her, but he wouldn’t listen.”  He stops short, throwing a glance sideways at Finn, whose glare has grown positively manic.  Dread is growing in Clarke’s stomach with a rapidity that makes her nauseous.  She fears Murphy’s next words almost more than the thought of what Lexa might do to their people when she hears what he has to say.    
  
“And what happened then?”  Lexa’s voice is quieter than she’s ever heard it.  Murphy swallows hard.  
  
“He uh — listen, commander lady, I tried to stop him; I told him to let them go, I tried, but he wouldn’t listen, it was like he’d gone insane — ”  
  
“Murphy, goddamn it, _shut up!”_    
  
 _“What.  Happened.  Then.”_   Murphy’s grimace has turned into an expression of pure panic.

“He shot them, okay!” he yells, and he’s digging his knees into the path like he’s trying to bury himself in the mud and disappear.  “He just went psycho, and he shot them, most of them!  Like fifteen, twenty — I don’t know, old people!  Kids!  He just went nuts, and I tried to stop him, but he’d shot like half the village before I made him quit!”    
  
 _“Goddamn it Murphy!”_  
  
“Finn what did you _do?”_ It escapes Clarke in horror, because he can’t — no, Murphy has to be lying.  Finn wouldn’t — Finn couldn’t —  
  
“I did it for you, Clarke!” Finn is saying earnestly.  His eyes are wide and sincere from down on the ground, looking up at her from on his knees with an expression that’s close to reverent.  “You’re an Omega; you needed me to save you.  I had to find you and rescue you; I did it to help you!”  He looks like he _believes_ it, like the words he’s spewing aren’t absolute madness; like the boy Clarke knew hasn’t faded out of his eyes, to be replaced by a blank emptiness worse than when she came back to find the drop ship abandoned and the bodies of the grounders laid to waste in ashes at its feet.  He’s looking at her like she’s something come to him out of a dream that’s going to lead him into another world, and it’s sickening.    
  
“I was _fine,_ Finn!” she finds herself yelling, though there are tears in her throat that make her words come out all garbled.  “I was okay, you shouldn’t have looked for me, you shouldn’t have _killed people_ for me, Finn, god, why did you _kill people?”_  
  
“Because I love you, Clarke.” Finn says simply.  Somehow, he doesn’t even raise his voice, like this simple truth is enough just to be spoken aloud.  He looks almost calm as he says it.  Clarke winces.  She doesn’t have to imagine the way that Anya’s entire body stiffens at the words; their effect is visible in the disgust on her face.  “Clarke,” Finn whispers again, “I _love_ you.  You know I had to do it, for you.  You know that.”  
  
Clarke is going to throw up.  Spinning around, she stumbles to the side of the trail, and bending over, vomits profusely into the grass.  A moment later, there’s a hand on her back, steadying her.  Anya.  When she straightens up, coughing and spluttering, it’s to see Indra and the guards converging on Murphy as Lexa strikes Finn across the head with a force that knocks him out.  At least three people, including Indra and Gustus, are shouting, spewing violent words in Trigedasleng the meaning of which Clarke can only guess at.    
  
She doesn’t know how they’re going to come back from this.

* * *

“What will they do to him?”  Clarke rides beside Anya at the front of the party; directly behind them are Lexa and Gustus.  In the back of the group, Indra and the remaining guards form a circle around the dead guards’ horses, to which Murphy and the unconscious Finn have been tied.  Anya doesn’t glance towards her as she responds.  
  
“You know our laws, Clarke,” she says flatly.  “Blood must have blood, and Finn has spilled much.  The punishment for murder on this scale is equal to that of a traitor; likely, Heda will have him put on the tree.”  Clarke’s stomach twists.  
  
“What is the tree?” she asks carefully.  She’s certain she doesn’t want to know.  This time, Anya does look at her, holding her gaze for a moment.  Her eyes are dark; impassive.    
  
“When a crime has been committed against the integrity of the Kongeda, or when more blood has been spilled than can be accounted for, the offender is bound to a tree, and shall suffer death by a thousand cuts,” she replies.  “Those who have been wronged take turns to cut him, and when a thousand cuts have been made, if he is still alive, the Commander is the one to deal the death blow.”  She must sense Clarke’s horror, for she holds her gaze with an expression that, while not pitying, certainly seems to understand the Omega’s shock.  “You think our ways harsh,” she carries on in a marginally softer tone, “but they are fair, and it is a code that we have lived by since the formation of the clans.”  Clarke doesn’t reply; she doesn’t trust herself to.  The thought is too much to digest.  
  
This situation is out of her depth.  Clarke has led her people from the moment they reached the ground, and that leadership has included violence and suffering and sacrifice.  She has seen the perils of vigilante justice; it resulted in a twelve-year-old child throwing herself off a cliff, and nearly ended in Murphy’s death by hanging.  She has banished people, bombed people; has burned three-hundred people alive, but this?  Finn is one of her own, one of her own who clearly loves her, despite the fact that the feeling is unreciprocated, despite the fact that it has driven him to madness.  Yet he has murdered innocents in an effort to get her back, and no matter how much she may care for him, she understands that such an act is unforgivable.  Almost more critically, she doesn’t know how such an act is going to affect this alliance, and by extension, their people still trapped inside Mount Weather.  
  
After everything she’s had to do to keep them alive, this?  This is too much for her to handle on her own.    
  
“I don’t know what to do.”  It’s perhaps not the most logical thing to confide in Anya; she’s supposed to be portraying herself as a strong ambassador, one who is capable of making firm and logical decisions and thereby upholding her end of an alliance.  Nevertheless, her instincts urge her to speak.  Whatever the confusion of the past few days, she is an Omega, one who is upset and afraid, and she feels the impulse to defer to an Alpha who can lend her aid.  It’s not that she thinks her status makes her less capable of handling the situation; Alpha or Omega, her leadership is a separate issue.  No: it’s that she knows that, regardless of status, Clarke is uncertain, and in her fear and uncertainty brought on by something abstract, she wants to seek the concrete comfort of an Alpha’s attention.    
  
“You do not know what to do about what?”  Anya has moved her horse marginally closer to Clarke’s, as though ceding to her unspoken wish.    
  
“How are we going to rescue our people without an alliance?” Clarke says despairingly.  “We have soldiers, but not enough to defeat the mountain on our own; it will take more strategy, more time, and the longer we wait — ” she stops herself, not wanting to consider what will happen if it takes them longer to subdue the mountain’s forces.    
  
“And why would you defeat the Maunon on your own?”  It is Lexa who speaks; she has drawn her horse up closer behind them.  Startled, turning her head, Clarke sees the Commander sitting perfectly straight astride her horse, her face unmoving as usual but with her eyes slightly narrowed.  
  
Clarke fumbles.  
  
“I mean — it's just that -- a member of Skaikru committed a crime against your people,” she points out uncertainly.  “I assumed that the alliance — ”  
  
“The alliance still stands.”  Lexa is firm.  “If this boy truly was not acting on the orders of your people at their camp, then the blame for the massacre rests on his shoulders, not theirs.”  Clarke stares.  It takes her a moment for the Commander’s words to sink in.

“I . . . thank you,” she says finally, holding Lexa’s gaze steadily.  “Your mercy is admirable.  Perhaps we don’t deserve it.”  To her surprise, Lexa snorts.

“Mercy has no place in the Kongeda,” she says shortly.  “It is logic and strategy, Klark kom Skaikru, that formed this alliance, as well as your word and mine.  I intend to uphold my end, as, I believe, do you.”  Clarke nods.  
  
“I do,” she says lowly.  Lexa’s gaze is still fastened on hers, unreadable.    
  
“Good,” she says.  “Make no mistake, however; this act will not go unpunished.  As he has committed a crime against Trikru, the boy Finn will be tried, and punished, according to Trikru law.”  
  
“The adults aren’t going to like that,” Clarke says quietly.  “They will want to make a decision based on their laws, not yours.”  Lexa’s brilliant eyes, though they still give no sign of readable thought, have become hard.    
  
“Then you will convince them otherwise,” she says lowly.  Clarke blinks.  
  
“You want me to tell them to let you punish one of their own according to your laws?” she parrots disbelievingly.  “You think they’ll listen to _me?”_   Lexa’s gaze is cold.  
  
“That is what the entirety of this alliance is based on, is it not?” she says in a voice made soft with warning.  “If your people do not follow your word, then any deal that you and I have struck is useless.  We will go back to war, and Skaikru will be annihilated.”  The cold frankness makes Clarke shiver.    
  
“They have other leaders,” she says slowly after a moment.  “I’m an ambassador, not a Chancellor.”  Lexa’s eyes flash brighter a green.    
  
“You may be the ambassador to Skaikru, but you are the leader of the Hundred,” she says coldly.  “You formed this alliance on your people’s behalf.  Your people are responsible for their actions, but you are their leader, Klark kom Skaikru, and _you_ are responsible for _them.”_

* * *

Their arrival at Camp Jaha is heralded by the armed Skaikru men and women who guard the tall metal gate.  Though etiquette would normally dictate that the Commander be the first to arrive, they have placed Clarke at the front of the party so that Skaikru will spot her first.  Despite what Jon may have assured them about the safety of their group, the incident with the sky boy Finn has left them all distinctly wary.    
  
At the sight of their group, a shout goes up, and within a minute, the gate is grinding open to reveal a modest encampment framed by the wreckage of what Anya takes to be part of their space station.  She saw the thing they call the _Ark_ fall from the sky — everyone did — but until now she has had trouble conceiving of what Clarke meant when she spoke of a space station.  The biggest structure Anya knows of is the Commander’s tower in Polis; the idea of a metal container capable of holding hundreds floating around in the sky was difficult to grasp.    
  
From what Clarke has explained to her, this encampment is only one fraction of that container.    
  
She doesn’t have much time to ponder it, however, for the moment the gates open, a crowd of people from inside is seen to be moving towards the entrance.  As they approach, a woman with light brown hair breaks away running from the front of the crowd with a cry.    
  
“Clarke!”    
  
 _“Mom!”_   In a second, Clarke has thrown herself clumsily off her horse and is moving as fast as her injured leg will allow.  Close to the gate, she collides with the woman in a hug that neither of the two have yet released by the time the rest of the travelers have approached the entrance.  Upon hearing the sound of hoofbeats drawing closer, however, Clarke pulls away, turning her attention back to the grounders, Finn, and Murphy.  From the edge of the crowd, another member of Skaikru has emerged — a man, a Beta with shaggy black hair, who must be the one that Clarke referred to as Kane.  While Clarke makes a move to shift back towards the group, it is he who approaches the Trikru first.  
  
“Welcome,” he greets amicably.  There’s an air about him that’s neutral, if not overly friendly, and Anya has the distinct impression that he is doing his best to present a calm and hospitable persona and to reserve judgment on the newcomers until a later point.  It is effective, too, and Anya senses that this man is as fair as Clarke described him.  “I am Marcus Kane, Chancellor of Camp Jaha and the surviving members of Ark Station.  You are the Commander?”  As if there could be any doubt.  Now at the front of the pack, Lexa inclines her head.    
  
“Greetings, Marcus Kane kom Skaikru,” is her reply.  “Are we to presume that we may enter your encampment without hostility?”  It’s a measured request, mild, but the Commander’s air also makes it perfectly clear that the question is a mere courtesy; Lexa has the power to go wherever she wants, whenever she wants, unchallenged.  It seems that this is immediately evident to Kane as well, for he offers a nod and steps aside, at the same time gesturing for the rest of the small crowd to step back and give the riders room to dismount.    
  
They do so without further discussion, moving carefully into the paddock.  Anya, like Lexa, doesn’t sense a need for concern at the present moment, but keeps her guard up all the same.  Skaikru are unpredictable; that, at least, is known.  They would do well to remain cautious.    
  
Lexa dismounts her horse, followed by Gustus and Anya, who move to flank her according to custom, bodyguard on the right, general on the left.  The Skaikru citizens, Anya notices, appear fascinated with the horses; she sees several of them pointing and exchanging awed murmurs.  By this point, Clarke is back among them, returning to lead her horse into the enclosure and hand him to Gustus to be properly tied at the piece of scrap metal that has been designated as a hitching post.  Her mother has followed.    
   
Anya’s first impression of Abby Griffin is of a tired, no-nonsense Alpha with eyes ringed with lines of stubbornness and a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.  There’s relief there, too, and a persistent level of concern that fluctuates in her eyes whenever they land on the figure of her daughter bent over the white stallion’s flank.  She looks as though she hasn’t slept in days — weeks, perhaps — but also as though she has brushed aside the exhaustion like a minor inconvenience; sleep comes second to survival.    
  
Anya thinks of all the things Clarke has said about her mother: that she betrayed her husband, that she sent her daughter and ninety-nine others to the ground to possibly die but also away from certain death in the sky; that she has been working endlessly ever since to find the rest of their people a way to the ground.  She thinks of all that Clarke has revealed about Skaikru Alphas, and decides, based on a moment’s observation, that Abby Griffin may not be among their kindest, but neither is she among their worst.  For now, Anya will reserve judgment.    
  
She won’t have to for long, she realizes; Indra and the guards have dismounted, and with their movement, the prisoners have become visible.  Skaikru has noticed, and abruptly, the murmurs over the horses have turned into confused, concerned mutters at the sight of Finn’s unconscious body and Murphy’s bound hands.    
  
Abby and Kane have noticed, too.    
  
“Clarke, what is this?” Abby asks sharply.  “Why are Finn and Murphy with you?  Why are they tied up?”  It’s a little loud, and those of the Skaikru citizens who were jostling to see before jostle even harder now.  Kane lays a hand on Abby’s arm; Clarke limps back from the horses and moves closer into the small circle they have formed near Lexa, Gustus, and Anya.  
  
“Something happened,” Clarke says lowly.  “We can talk about it more inside.”  Abby looks as though she wants to argue, but a rise in volume from the gathering crowd seems to make her think the better of it.  Turning back to the assembled citizens, she raises her voice.

“Please, everyone, go back to your duties!” she calls out over the sound of their growing mass confusion.  “We will hold a gathering later to keep everyone informed about what we decide!”  As they obediently shuffle away, grumbling slightly, she turns back to the newcomers with narrowed eyes.  
  
“We have much to discuss, I see,” Kane says mildly.  Lexa nods tersely.    
  
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside.”  Her command masquerades as a request.  “It has been a long journey, and the Omegas are hungry.”  Anya knows that Lexa, too, has been sensing the growing agitation of the three Omegas in the group: Clarke, Gustus, and the boy Murphy, while no more deprived than the others of rest or nourishment, have a certain level of anxious distress to their scent that indicates hunger, and the Alphas urge to soothe it.  Anya feels it towards all of them, even Murphy, for though the sky boy was in the company of the murderer, he tried to stop the massacre.  His general air is of one who is accustomed to being kicked around, and Anya doesn’t like it no matter what he may have done.    
  
Something about the request causes a tense expression to take hold of Abby’s face, but Marcus merely nods.  
  
“Certainly,” he acquiesces agreeably.  “We have a meeting room set up, and we will have someone bring us some food.  I’m sure you’re all hungry.”  From any other mouth, Anya would read it as a friendly way of dismissing the needs of the Omegas, but from Kane’s, she can read only genuineness.  As a Beta, perhaps he is so accustomed to the Skaikru Alphas’ ways that such a response is automatic.    
  
At any rate, it’s a concession, and one that they will take.  Anya is hungry, herself.    
  
“Send for some fresh bandages, too,” Clarke interjects quietly, causing the attention to turn momentarily to her.  “Anya and I have injuries that will need redressing.”  That causes Abby’s face to contort with concern, and she makes a move like she wants to fuss over Clarke.  To do so, however, would mean stepping in front of Lexa, and whatever Abby’s level of disregard for the grounders, that is apparently a line of disrespect she isn’t willing to risk crossing.  Fingers twitching, she stays put.  
  
“What happened?” she asks instead, and there’s an audibly affected attempt at keeping her tone mild.  Clarke shoots Anya a glance.  
  
“It’s a long story,” she says after a moment.  “Anya, can I take a look at your knife wound, actually?  I need to see if we need to send for some antiseptic.”  Abby looks helpless.  
  
 _“Knife wound — ”_  
  
“Can it not wait?” Anya mutters under her breath.  Trikru aren’t ashamed of revealing their bodies in front of one another, but something about having Clarke fuss over her with so many people present feels a little illicit.  Clarke’s eyes flash like she knows precisely what she’s thinking.  
  
“No,” she says shortly.  She’s over by Anya’s side before another protest can be made, lifting up her jacket to peer at the re-stitched knife wound in her side.  “Good, it’s healing all right.  I was hoping it wouldn’t get infected.”  Such a statement would indicate that one is done looking, but Clarke remains for several heartbeats longer than necessary, her hands lingering on the soft, warm skin above Anya’s hip.  Anya fights to keep her breathing even.  It’s embarrassing.    
  
“All right, if no one is infected, shall we move inside?”  It’s Kane who speaks, and after a moment in which they all assess each other, a murmur of assent runs through the group, and they begin to move towards the giant metal structure at the other end of the camp.    
  
Maybe it’s a reasonable response to the presence of strangers in the Skaikru camp, but Anya can feel Abby’s eyes burning into the back of her head as she brings up the rear.

* * *

It’s immeasurably odd, after weeks in the forest, to be back within the Ark’s steel and mechanical hum, and even odder to be within it on the _ground._   There are places where the walls have been torn off, where the doors, always sealed in space, are perpetually open to let in the sun and wind and fresh air.  It’s a strange juxtaposition of a home that was once familiar and another home that is newly so — for the ground, with its forests and mountains and meadows, is Clarke’s home now.  That is a truth that has hit her hard in the past few days.  The structure that has been her home her entire life now feels strangely alien.  She’s not sure she could come back even to this new and improved, grounded version of Ark steel and machines.  
  
It has taken the better part of two hours, but they have finally laid their terms.    
  
The conversation has been filled, mostly, with a summarization by all parties of what has occurred in the past few weeks: everything leading from the drop ship’s landing to their meeting today.  The terms are simple, for the moment.  Skaikru and Trikru will work together to infiltrate Mount Weather, rescue their people, and ensure that the mountain is substantially incapacitated so as to never allow such atrocities to occur again.  The logistics of all of these phases — the last one in particular — are still unclear, but now they’ll have a team assembled to figure that part out later.    
  
Kane and Abby, reasonably so, want to know what will happen once the mountain falls.  It would be a fine thing to work together to rescue their people only for the two clans to go immediately back to war once everyone has been secured.  Lexa’s response to that is simple.  
  
“If our people in the mountain are successfully liberated,” she answers, “the blood debt of the battle at the drop ship will be repaid and Skaikru will join the Coalition as the thirteenth clan.  You will have to abide by the Kongeda laws, of course, but to join will ensure peace and trade, not only of supplies but of knowledge.  We both, I am sure, have much to learn from one another.”  She inclines her head towards Kane in a show of respect, but Clarke is well aware that it’s just that: a show.  Lexa has been more than lenient during their discussion, considering that in the past week alone Skaikru have successfully wiped out more grounders than the size of their own population.  She may be willing to work with Clarke, who has returned her general to her safe and sound and brought the information about the mountain, but the adults are an unknown entity.    
  
“That sounds fair to me,” Kane replies smoothly.  “Certainly, we can all find something to benefit from in one another.  In any case, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.  We can work well together.”  They are gathered around the large circular table, a conference made up of Lexa, Anya, Indra, Gustus, Kane, Abby, and Clarke.  Kane leans forward, hands clasped earnestly on the table top.  “In that case, before we bind this deal, we will need to discuss the terms of the alliance.”  Lexa doesn’t lean forward to match him; her expression doesn’t change.  It hasn’t, not once in the past two hours.    
  
“Those terms are simple,” she says with a kind of cool ease that, Clarke thinks, almost makes Kane and Abby look like floundering children.  “We know you have guns.  Obviously, those will be useful to us in capturing the mountain, but until then, I want them gone.  Your guards and hunting parties unarmed.  If you’d like, you may set a guard to watch over their storage place, but I will post one of my own as well.  I hope you understand my reasoning,” she continues when Kane looks like he wants to argue the request.  “This alliance is a peace treaty, temporary or otherwise.  By the terms of its very purpose, we are bound not to be at war with one another while we take down our common enemy.  I understand that they are your only line of defense, but as there is nothing in these woods interested in harming you besides my army, you will not need them in the meantime.”  Kane hums.  
  
“I understand,” he says calmly, “but we need those guns for hunting.  How else are we supposed to eat?”  At that, Anya lets out a sound of derision.    
  
“Your marksmen are not used to live animal targets, if the state of the animal pelts we saw in your camp are any indication,” she says with a snort from where she’s reclining, arms folded, in a nearby chair.  “You are ruining the animals you do shoot, and scaring off the ones you do not with all the noise.”    
  
“Enough, Anya.”  Lexa’s voice is as good a warning as any of them need.  “The concern is warranted.  We will send you provisions in the meantime,” she answers easily.  “Our hunters find plenty, and we have extras even for your several hundred.  Keep in mind, as well, that several of you will not be here, anyway; we will establish a base at the halfway point between Camp Jaha and Tondisi, and use it as a meeting place for the leaders to strategize.”  Kane glances at Abby a little uneasily.  
  
“Commander, I don’t mean to be rude, but please understand that being dependent on a lack of hostility from a former enemy makes us . . . a little nervous,” he says slowly.  Lexa’s eyes flash.  
  
“If we do not trust each other, there is no point in us sitting here discussing this further,” she says coldly.  Kane, sensing danger, backs off.  
  
“You’re right,” he composes himself.  “Please, continue.”  From her position between Kane and Gustus, Clarke watches her mother’s jaw tense.  It’s clear that Abby doesn’t like being bossed around; Clarke understands, especially knowing what sort of ghastly decisions the Council must have made in order to get people safely to the ground.  Now, however, is not the moment to be obstinate.  Their lives depend on being in Lexa’s good graces; at the moment, they’re there, and that’s where Clarke intends to stay, but it’s taken a lot of work to build something that one wrong word could easily undo.  Privately, watching the postures of everyone seated at the round table, she thinks that her mother’s real issue is being told what to do by a slim little Alpha more than twenty years her junior.  It’s the sort of brutish Alpha pissing contest that makes Clarke eternally grateful that their Chancellor is a Beta.  Kane doesn’t have to worry about internal power struggles alongside external ones.    
  
“Other than the restriction on the guns, I have only one other term,” Lexa is saying when Clarke tunes back in.  “That is, of course, with the understanding that this alliance is a cease-fire; no more blood shall be spilled between our people, and if we are successful in liberating the Maunon’s prisoners, the blood debt of the three-hundred warriors and Trikru village will be repaid.”  Kane nods in reply; around the table, shoulders have suddenly grown tense in preparation for hearing Lexa’s final term.  “In that case,” the Commander continues at a volume raised slightly so that there can be no mistaking her words, “the final term of this alliance is the Skaikru boy that you call Finn.  He has massacred a village of innocent Trikru elders, women, and children, as well as three of my personal guards.  The violence imparted during the battles between the Trikru armies and your Hundred is justified by war; this act of mass murder has no justification.  A massacre on such a scale is a crime against the clans, and it will see justice.”    
  
Clarke’s stomach feels the way it did when she first stepped into the harvest chamber.  Around the table, everyone has grown still.    
  
“And what is the justice that you demand, Commander?” Kane asks quietly at last.  Lexa’s face is as impassive as ever beneath her war paint.    
  
“Blood must have blood, Chancellor,” she says softly.  “To seal this alliance, the boy Finn must die.”    
  
There’s a violent shrieking of metal on metal as Abby thrusts her chair back and stands up.

“No,” she says sharply.  Lexa raises a single, delicate eyebrow.  
  
“No?” she repeats, and her voice has gone icier than the waterfall that Clarke and Anya threw themselves into to escape the Mountain Men.  “Am I to understand, then, that this alliance is to be annulled?”    
  
“You will not harm any more of our children!”  Abby’s voice is strained and desperate.  She’s clutching the edge of the table, leaning so far over that she’s nearly spitting into Lexa’s face.  On the other side, Gustus and Indra have risen in kind, hands on their hips where their swords are sheathed.  “We sent a hundred kids down here — a hundred and two, if you count Raven and Bellamy, which I do.  There are fifty-six of them left.  That’s forty-six dead, thirty-two of them by your hands.  I will not make that total forty-seven.”    
  
“Abby, if we don’t destroy that mountain, that total may be ninety-six,” Kane says quietly.  “Clarke, Bellamy, Finn, Murphy, Octavia, and Raven are the only kids not inside.”  He has not risen from his chair, perhaps taking his cue from Lexa, who remains seated as calmly as ever.  Abby turns to him with a look of outrage.  
  
“You would hand that boy over to these savages?” she snarls.  Clarke can’t be sure, but she thinks she detects the slightest flicker of irritation beginning in Lexa’s eyes.    
  
“No, Abby . . .”  Kane sounds weary.  This is a fight that he doesn’t want to be dragged into, Clarke knows.  It’s the nature of Betas to be diplomatic, and this discussion is turning away from diplomacy with alarming rapidity.  None of the Trikru have participated in the quarrel thus far, and Clarke has a feeling that they’re going to let the Arkers fight it out and come back to them with a decision once one has been made.  Lexa has not risen to her feet, nor have Anya, Kane, or Clarke, but the former two are tense, and the latter is fighting the sudden urge to escape the room.  God, where’s Bellamy when she needs him?  Out on a hunting mission, according to Abby.  Christ.    
  
“We have made too many choices that were the lesser of two evils!” Abby exclaims.  “We came to the ground so that we wouldn’t have to condemn some of our people to death for the good of the rest, Marcus.”  A desperate, pleading note has entered her voice, one that it hurts Clarke to hear.  She doesn’t know the full extent of what went on on the Ark after the Hundred were sent down, but she knows it can’t have been easy.  She’s not sure she ever wants to know the kinds of decisions her mother had to make, as she says, to condemn some to death for the good of the rest.    
  
Actually, now that she considers it, Clarke can think of one instance where her mother did exactly that.  She was present for it, in fact.    
  
“No one said this was going to be easy, Abby,” Kane says tiredly.  He sounds exhausted, but there’s something in his voice that sounds soothing, too, and again, Clarke can’t help wondering what exactly went on in the sky after she left.  Certainly, she doesn’t remember Kane and her mother ever being on the same side before.  “We came here knowing that life was going to be a hard fight, but that at least on the ground we might be alive to fight it.  We’ve already faced unspeakable things . . . lost so many kids . . . and if we don’t ally ourselves with these people, we’re going to lose so many more.”  A heavy silence follows his words.  Clarke swallows, then immediately regrets it; the air tastes like metal, fear, and angry Alphas.  It feels deeply weighted, like lead.    
  
“Finn Collins’s parents are dead,” Kane says slowly after a long moment, “but Nate Miller’s?  Harper McIntyre’s?  Zoe Monroe’s?  How would you explain to their parents that we let their children die a painful death because we wouldn’t send a mass murderer to justice?”    
  
“So Finn Collins’s life is worth less because he has no family?”  Abby sounds disbelieving.    
  
“I’m not saying that, Abby,” Kane retorts, and there’s a sharpness in his voice that wasn’t there a second ago.  As painful as this argument is, they’re wearing it a little thin.  There are only so many options to exercise, and though none of them are agreeable, one will eventually have to be chosen.  Kane rubs a hand over his face.    
  
“Is there no other way?” he asks wearily.  His eyes are closed, but the question is directed at Lexa.    
  
“No,” is the unyielding response.    
  
“You will accept no other terms?”  
  
“None.”    
  
“So we’ll destroy the mountain without them!”  Abby is irate.  
  
“I believe you are forgetting that if you do not accept this alliance, you are actively declaring war,” Lexa counters sharply.  “You are with us or against us, but you must _choose._   Time is passing quickly.  More are dying.  _You must make a decision.”_   Beneath her warpaint, Clarke thinks that her expression may be growing contorted, the lines around her lips tighter with anger and impatience.    
  
“And what if we are to refuse the terms?” Abby challenges.  No part of Lexa even twitches, but there’s something chilling about her stillness with the rooms devolving into chaos around her.  
  
“Then you will be annihilated,” she says flatly.  “Make no mistake, if you do not comply with the terms of this alliance, Arkadia will be destroyed.  The three hundred warriors that Klark kom Skaikru burned were merely a platoon; the Kongeda army is over nine hundred thousand in number.  Your entire clan is four-hundred and eighty-three.  Your children who you sent down with the drop ship will be given separate consideration, and those who comply with the terms will be offered sanctuary.  Do not forget that you are invaders in our lands; you have no right to live here.  It is by mercy alone that you have been allowed to live this long.  You would be wise to listen to the terms that Klark kom Skaikru has negotiated for you.”    
  
It’s a lose-lose situation.  Clarke can’t recall ever feeling so stuck, not even when she and Bellamy were leading the delinquents into battle and there was an impossible decision at every turn.  Here, she feels desperately caught in the middle.  No matter how much she may have earned the place she occupies at this table, Clarke realizes, the very fact of the matter is that she doesn’t want it.  She doesn’t want to have to make this decision, as angry as she knows she would be if they were to make it without her.  She feels pained and uncomfortable and out of place, with the adults who she loved but who sent her to die on the ground to her left and the overly hospitable enemy to her right.  
  
Clarke realizes with a start that even before this argument started, she didn’t know where she stood.  Certainly, she has come here with the Trikru to negotiate an alliance on the behalf of _her people,_ but who are her people, really?  A month ago, with no knowledge of any other human civilization, she would have said the Ark.  On the ground, with the Hundred, things became less clear, and _now_ . . . now, she has just spent several days in the company of a grounder Alpha who has cared for her in ways that no one else has ever taken the trouble to, has been treated with courtesy even as an untrusted ambassador in the enemy’s camp.    
  
She wants Bellamy, but Bellamy isn’t here.  Clarke is going to have to do this without him, even though he’s an Alpha and more suited to these sort of confrontations.  Bellamy would know what to do about Finn, about Mount Weather, about all of it.  
  
Clarke is a leader, an ambassador, but she’s an _Omega._ She wants to rescue everyone from the mountain, Skaikru and grounders alike, and wrap them in warm blankets, tend their injuries, and feed them a hot meal while assuring them that they’re safe and sound.  She’ll fight her way in to them tooth and nail if she has to; she’ll deal death blows left and right if it means her people will be safe, but she doesn’t want to _debate_ about it.  She doesn’t want to suffer through the politics; she wants to take decisive action that will yield tangible results.    
  
She doesn’t want to have to choose, like her mother, between the death of one who used to be close to her and the deaths of hundreds.  It seems an awful decision to make, weighing one against the good of the rest, but she just wants a decision to be made already so that she can get on with it.  Every other day she wants control, wants to be at the top of the food chain if only so that she’s not at the bottom, but today she’s just _tired._ There’s no good outcome, so she almost doesn’t care what it ends up being.  She wants to take care of her friends.  She will keep fighting with them, _for_ them.  She’s an Omega; it’s what she’s _born_ to do.  
  
Finn’s words come back to her without warning.  
  
 _You’re an Omega.  You needed me to save you._   The thought sears her chest, leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.  Finn, who has had her back since the moment they hit the ground, who was adventurous when she needed him to be, fair when she needed him to be, crafty when she needed him to be . . . he was what she needed when she was there to let him know it.  He was attentive — obsessive, perhaps, is more accurate — and always fought to give _Clarke_ what _she_ needed.  It sickens her a little to think that perhaps he was only doing it because she’s an Omega, but part of her knows that those were words spewed in a moment of madness.  Finn — at least in the beginning — didn’t actually think that.  
  
Nevertheless, Finn committed a crime; he murdered twenty-one innocent people for her, because he thought in his frantic, manic mind that she needed him.  In a choice between Clarke and over twenty innocent people, he chose Clarke.    
  
 _One, or the good of the rest._    
  
She thinks of Harper, Monty, Jasper, Miller, Monroe . . . all of these people who she has tried so hard to save, fighting day and night to keep them all alive against impossible odds.    
  
The odds they’re fighting just got made a little more impossible, but what is it that Anya says?  The fight isn’t over.  
  
 _Ai gonplei nou ste odon._  
  
“Hand him over.”  She doesn’t raise her voice, but the three words, as quiet as they are, are heard through the chaos of shouts in the room like a falling anvil.  In an second, silence falls.  All eyes are on Clarke in an instant.  She hasn’t moved, but her fingers grip the steel edge of the table like a vice.  On the other side of the table, Anya is watching her intently.  
  
Abby has gone pale.  
  
“Clarke, you don’t mean that,” she whispers.  “Think of what you’re saying.”    
  
“I am thinking about it.”  The words come out harsher than she means them to; she can see her mother flinch at the sound.  “Do you think I _want_ to let Finn die?  Do you think I _want_ that?”  Still, her voice doesn’t rise, but Clarke can feel the fury shaking them.  It feels as though a hand has punched through a chest and grabbed ahold of her spine and is shaking it, threatening to rip it from her body.  It feels frightening, but it also feels _warm._  
  
“No, of course not, but — ”  
  
“Finn committed a crime,” Clarke cuts her mother off.  Her hands are shaky where she grips the table, but somehow, she can hear her voice growing stronger.  Lexa's words echo in her head.  _You are their leader, Klark kom Skaikru, and you are responsible for them._ “He committed _mass murder._   If one of their people did that to us, would you let them go free?  Or would you want to see the murderer punished?  It doesn’t _matter_ how we feel about it; our people and theirs are dying in that mountain, and they will continue to unless we fight them together.  We cannot do it alone, and we cannot have this alliance without meeting their terms.  Our feelings don’t matter.  There is no other option.”    
  
“That isn’t your decision to make, Clarke.”  Her mother’s voice is stony in a way that Clarke hasn’t heard it in a long time, not since she overheard her parents arguing about her father’s decision to tell the rest of the Ark they had a death sentence.  It’s cold, infused with a level of Alpha control that her mother has hardly ever employed.  She’s not the kind of Alpha to use her position to get power or the upper hand, but right now, in her desperation, her control appears to be slipping.  Clarke’s grip on the edge of the table tightens.  _You are their leader._  
  
“It is my decision,” she counters firmly.  It’s a bit of a struggle to get the words out; she’s fighting the Alpha influence in the air, which between all of the agitated Alphas in the room, is quite great.  She can see the room’s only other Omega, Gustus, pinching his eyebrows together in a grimace at the weight of it.  She forces herself to shrug it off.  This moment isn’t about status, as much of a role as it might play.  “The Hundred haven’t been a part of the Ark here on the ground; our actions were not yours, and our battles were not yours.  Finn is one of the Hundred, and Bellamy and I are their leaders.  What happens to Finn is my responsibility.”  _If your people do not follow your word, then any deal that you and I have struck is useless._   She doesn’t know why they don’t get it; she doesn’t want it any more than they do, but she needs them to listen to her, or else this alliance is off.    
  
“There are adults on the ground now, Clarke,” Kane begins, but Clarke cuts him off before he can finish.  
  
“Yes, there are; the same adults who sent us down here on our own to die,” she reminds him evenly.  “You lost your right to govern us when you cast us out of your society.  We had to survive on our own, fight on our own, _die_ on our own.  We established leadership, we fought together, we fought each other, and we survived without you there.  On the Ark, we were your prisoners, your responsibility but you exiled us.  We are our own responsibility here.”  The Trikru at the table are watching her with dark, serious eyes.  Lexa almost looks impressed.  Abby, however, is irate.  
  
“You are not a leader!” she spits.  With a heavy _thud,_ she shoves her chair back into position as though making ready to move around the table.  Clarke rolls her eyes.  
  
“Just because I’m an _Omega,_ Mom — ”  
  
“It’s not because you’re an Omega, it’s because you are a _child!”_   Abby is breathing hard.  When Clarke meets her eyes, she finds that though she feels remorse for the choices her mother has had to make, she feels very little for the one she herself is making now.  
  
“You sent a child down here to die,” she says softly.  “And if you hadn’t, if we were still on the Ark, you would have stopped considering me a child three weeks ago, and I would be dead.  I am a child no longer.  I have negotiated an alliance, risking my life and so many others for peace, and it is _my_ responsibility to uphold it,” she concludes with an air of utter finality.  Standing up, she pushes her chair back with a squeal and swings the borrowed cloak that still smells of Anya over her shoulders.  “And now, I am going back outside the gates to feed my horse, and then I will find myself a place to sleep for the night.  Where I do so is none of your concern.”  Abby is showing every sign of wanting to open her mouth, but Clarke is done.  “Tell Skaikru the alliance is secured, and that the leaders will convene tomorrow to discuss plans for the attack on Mount Weather,” are her words as she reaches the door and fastens them all with one final, hard look.  “Tell Raven and Bellamy to go to the holding cell to say their goodbyes.  Finn dies at dawn.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick heads up that I'm going to be traveling a lot in the next few weeks, so I'm not 100% sure when I'll find time to post the next chapter, but I'm working on it already; never fear.


	3. Rabbit Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Finn's execution arrives. Distrust continues to threaten the alliance. Clarke thinks about what her relationship with the grounders might mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks. Once Finn is out of the way, there will be a lot more focus on Clanya. I didn't want all the focus to be on plot, so . . . it's not. Once again, your comments continue to surprise me in the best of ways; reading them makes my day.
> 
> It's almost three AM. But Clanya calls.
> 
> Chapter title is from Florence and the Machine, because I listened to Lungs on repeat while I wrote this chapter. For some reason.

Clarke doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it happens anyway when she goes to the holding cells an hour later to talk to Finn. It’s not as though she’s not torn up about this. She used every ounce of her energy to channel her protective Omega instincts into making the right decision back in the Council Room, but it doesn’t mean that she’s immune to the psychological ramifications of the choice that she has made. No matter the insanity that seems to have overcome Finn since her disappearance into the mountain, no matter what crimes he has committed, he is still her _friend._

A friend who she has sentenced to death.

It’s not a thought that sits well with her, not remotely. It goes against almost every impulse Clarke has to hand over someone who was once her friend — who was once nearly more than that — to what she knows will be a long and brutal death. Almost every impulse. The only remaining counterargument her instincts make is for her to protect the rest of her people. Part of her feels torn that she has leaned into instinct while making such a weighty choice, but she pacifies herself with the recognition that she made this decision with her head as well as her heart. Surely the balance will result in a less awful outcome.

God, she hopes she’s doing the right thing. If she isn’t, she doesn’t think she can bear the thought of the consequences.

In either case, Clarke knows she needs to talk to him. She can’t very well let their last interaction be an indirect one in which she laid his death sentence; no. She needs to go to him, to _explain,_ at least, why this is happening. To tell him she’s sorry, even though it’s not a decision she’s going to revoke. Because murderer or not, when it comes down to it, Finn is her friend. At least, he was. Whatever he has become is irrelevant to that; whatever soulless creature hunted down those innocent villagers, somewhere inside is the boy. Somewhere beneath the layers of obsession and madness is the spacewalker who was devoted to doing the right thing, to being kind, to enjoying the beauty of the earth.

She can’t save him, but it is only right that she pay that part of him her respects.

It’s late evening now, not quite sunset but near enough that Abby has told her they’ll be starting dinner soon. That seems to be a mass affair, judging by the tables that have been assembled out in the middle of the campground. She’s taking advantage of the fact that everyone is now off preparing food to go speak to Finn alone; hopefully, with everyone occupied at the fires, no one will bother them and she’ll be able to say what she needs to say in peace.

Of course, after everything, she shouldn’t have been so foolish to assume that luck would be on her side for once in her damn life.

Before Clarke rounds the corner to the holding cells where Finn has been imprisoned, she’s brought to a halt by the sound of quiet voices. Though in low tones, they’re speaking loudly enough that she thinks they haven’t heard her, for there is no pause in their conversation as she carefully approaches the corner. She stops there, back pressed to the wall and ears strained, trying to pick up what they’re saying.

A moment later, her chest gives an involuntary clench.

“ . . . don’t understand why you won’t let me; I could hot wire these doors in two minutes and sneak you out of here while everyone’s at dinner. Boom, done. Matter of fact, I could come with you.” The sound of Raven’s voice, which several hours ago would have been a cause for excitement and relief, shoots something through Clarke’s veins that makes her feel like she’s suddenly been plunged into ice water.

“And I told you, you can’t do that for me. Neither of us are going anywhere.” For someone who’s been given about twelve hours until his execution, Finn sounds surprisingly calm. There’s no note of the mania that stole him in the forest, and Clarke’s heart hurts to hear it. He sounds like plain old Finn.

“But you could _live,_ Finn.” Raven’s protests are pleading; Clarke can’t see either of them, but she can imagine the expression on the Omega’s face: desperate, pained. It doesn’t do much to ease the ache in her chest. “We could go somewhere, just the two of us. What about that clan by the ocean? We could see the _ocean,_ Finn; think how awesome that would be. You, me, and some giant-ass, probably totally radioactively mutated lobsters. Bam; surf’s up. You’re golden.” There’s a choked sound, as though Finn is stuck somewhere between a chuckle and a snort.

“You know we can’t do that.” He doesn’t even sound defeated, which might possibly be the worst part. Clarke could justify this situation a whole lot better if he would just act like a damn murderer and be done with it. A killer, she can execute; she’s not sure she can execute a lucid, unprotesting seventeen-year-old boy. “Raven, think of our friends, think of everyone inside Mount Weather. We have to get them out. _You_ have to get them out. It sounds like the Commander won’t help you if you don’t hand me over. You can’t do it alone, and our friends need you.”

“That’s Clarke’s bullshit logic,” Raven counters angrily. “There has to be some other way — something else that we can do — ”

“There isn’t.” Finn doesn’t sound impatient, just even calmer, if possible. “There isn’t, and you know that. Clarke is right.”

“Clarke is on a power trip because she’s the grounders’ new little pet.” Clarke winces; Raven sounds vicious in a way that she’s never quite heard from her before. The worst part is that it’s completely justified.

“No, she’s not,” Finn says softly. He sounds almost pacifying, and Clarke doesn’t want to listen to this, she doesn’t _want_ to listen to him defend her, but there’s no way now that she’s getting out of here without hearing what he has to say. She feels absolutely glued to the floor, like in one of those nightmares where she knows that the monster is coming but can’t seem to make her feet move. “Clarke is a good leader, Raven, and she’s doing the right thing for all of us. This can’t be easy for her either, so don’t be too hard on her. It’s not her fault.”

“It’s not fair that she gets to call the shots and let everyone else pay the consequences!” Raven snaps. “She killed _three-hundred_ grounders, but you’re the one who has to be punished.” Quietly, Finn hums what seems to be his disagreement.

“Clarke defended our camp from three-hundred soldiers who were trying to kill us all,” he counters softly. “I committed _murder,_ Raven, I — I killed _twenty-one innocent people_ because I thought it would protect her. Just like I put on that spacesuit and went to prison to protect you. I know it sounds crazy, but when you want to protect someone that badly, doing one thing is the same as doing another; doesn’t matter what it is. But I still committed murder, and the grounders are right: I _should_ be punished. I _should_ die, I think, because as upset as I am at the thought that I killed those people, I realized as soon as I did it that I would do it again in a second, just to protect her. Just to protect _either_ of you. We can’t — we can’t live that way, Rae; not if we’re going to try to build a life here. I’m a liability. We want peace, and as long as I want to protect you both, I’m always going to endanger it.”

By now, Clarke has heard enough. A hand to her mouth, she turns, bracing herself on the wall, and stumbles back down the hallway, not really caring how much noise she makes on the way out. She has to get away, away from this, away from _Finn,_ who is just sitting here accepting his death like it has nothing to do with her. What’s worse, he’d do it again, to her, _for_ her, and he knows it and is condemning himself because of it. It’s so tragically, devastatingly logical. He isn’t crazy at all, and somehow, that’s the worst news she’s heard all day.

By the time Clarke trips outside and back into the open, frost-bitten air of the muddy campsite, the urge to vomit has abated somewhat. Even still, she has to bend double and brace herself against the doorjamb for a moment, breathing hard. Her vision is swimming a bit, and part of her thinks her blood pressure should just do her a favor and put her out of her misery for a few minutes. Her brain could certainly do with a reboot. After a few moments, though, she ultimately decides that passing out will do no one any good, and having come to that conclusion, slowly, she raises her head.

The camp is buzzing with people, the majority of them gathered around a series of seven or eight campfires that flicker in the near-total dusk. The rest are lined up near a bigger fire at which a man and two women in aprons — she thinks she recognizes them from Mecha Station — are ladling food onto plates. The level of chatter is high, everyone’s voices fairly cheery, and Clarke deduces that her mother must have informed them of the alliance. Word of Finn’s impending execution doesn’t seem to have spread yet; if it had, she doubts she would have made it out the door without someone taking a shot at her. Even as she stands there, a passing older woman waves, and calls out from a little ways down the incline.

“Clarke! Food’s up! Come join us!” It’s a little hard to tell from this distance, but Clarke thinks she recognizes Glenda McOwen from Alpha Station. She used to babysit the McOwens’ little boy, Evan, back in the days before she was imprisoned. Word must have reached them, then, about the reason for her imprisonment. Once the truth about the Ark’s fate was revealed, there would have been no reason to hide it.

The last thing Clarke wants to do is to sit among old family acquaintances, eating and drinking and catching up like nothing’s happening. Maybe nothing is going to change, maybe she’s beginning to comprehend the fact that she won’t wake up tomorrow to find out that this evening’s series of events wasn’t just a horrible nightmare, but she doesn’t think she can fake it tonight. She can’t fathom sitting through a recounting of Skaikru’s last days on the Ark, finding out who made it and who didn’t, exchanging despair and relief and condolences and all the while pretending like she didn’t just condemn one of her best friends to his death. She can’t pretend that she’s going to forget the sound of his voice as he admitted to his ex-girlfriend — _her friend_ — that he agrees with Clarke’s decision to not let him live.

She doesn’t want to remember, she doesn’t want to _think;_ she wants to crawl into bed somewhere and scream into her pillow and cry and then, maybe, drink herself to sleep on some moonshine. She knows they’ve made some already; she can smell it. Clarke just wants to _sleep._ The fact is, though, and she’s forced to acknowledge it, that she realizes she doesn’t know _where_ she’s going to sleep. She’s been deliberately avoiding her mother and Kane ever since the meeting, and she realizes that if someone has thought to make up a bunk for her, she hasn’t the slightest clue where it might be. She also doesn’t really want to sleep _here,_ in the steel and mud and concrete, surrounded by machines and people who, if they aren’t angry at her already, certainly will be by tomorrow morning.

To add insult to injury, she’s also hungry. The traveling group planned on stopping for lunch along the trail, but Finn’s appearance arrested those plans. Other than the quick, rather inhospitable snack of sour wild grapes that her mother drudged up to serve the guests, she hasn’t eaten since before sunrise. Honestly, she just wants a hug, but the woman who would normally grant her one of those is currently fussing about in med bay and probably thinks her daughter is an inhuman traitor to their kind. She’s hungry, cold, exhausted, and upset, and feels the incapacitating need to deal with all four problems at once while also feeling incapable of addressing any one of them before the other three have been dealt with.

Closing her eyes for the briefest of moments to brace herself, Clarke draws a steadying breath and descends to the fire pits.

As she moves among the crowd of people gathering their dinner, a few of them call out greetings and make signs of recognition. She responds with a bland smile, recognizing some of them but unable to do much more than grant them a word or a nod. These are people she has known her whole life, who have probably known Finn for his whole life. Tomorrow, they may be wishing that she is the one up on the post in his stead. As much as she understands, she finds that tonight, she can’t stomach the thought. Instead, she tries to focus on distracting herself as much as possible. She needs to think of something else — anything else — if she’s going to make it through the night without completely losing it.

As she moves closer to where the food is being dished out, she takes stock of the people around her. It’s a good mix of all ages, something that looks a little odd after weeks of being surrounded by teenagers without an adult in sight. She’s not sure when she started thinking of her age as the norm, but it only adds to her feeling of disruption that that norm has been upended. There are people of all status, too, which was a little rarer among the Hundred; most of the teenagers were Alphas or Betas, or some even too young to have presented yet.

It’s odd, after weeks of being in a group of renegade children, to be back among the order and hierarchy of the Ark. She’s reminded, almost immediately, of what her status means among the Arkers. All of the Alphas already have full plates heaping with meat, and are eating and chatting around the fire. Clarke slips into line with the Betas and Omegas, swiping up a plate from the counter. When her turn comes, the man doesn’t even glance at her as he scoops the food onto her plate.

Avoiding eye contact with everyone, she steps out of the line and scans the compound for an empty spot to eat that is least likely to end up with her dragged into conversation. Most of the seats around the fires are occupied by people from Mecha station, which makes old acquaintances a little harder to avoid. Finally, though, she spots an empty seat in the group furthest from the wreck of the station, and moves over to the fire near Murphy and a group of older people who don’t look familiar, and finds a seat on a log.

Only then, settled with the fire crackling near her feet, does she look down at her plate. A single, small cut of tough meat is the only item on the tin.

Clarke stares at it for a moment, her gaze blank. An unidentified emotion rises up in her chest.

Then she stands up, so abruptly that the old woman next to her startles. Clarke doesn’t offer an apology or even spare the woman a look as she strides across the circle of light, dumping her food onto Murphy’s plate as she passes, and moves without a backward glance toward the compound gate.

Octavia spies her when she’s passing the horse paddock.

“Headed outside to sit with the civilized people?” she observes knowingly. Clarke doesn’t respond; she doesn’t have to. A chuckle follows her back as she strides towards the darkened gate, left open enough for someone to slip through. “Welcome to the grounder pounder club!” Octavia calls smugly after her. “We have cookies!”

Clarke doesn’t reply.

* * *

Outside, the darkness is immense. It is the deep, imperturbable blackness of the forest, all familiar landscapes rendered strange and foreign in the dark. There is a flicker of a campfire fire, though, a short distance away from the gate. She knew there would be.

It occurs to Clarke as she approaches that she has no idea what to say. The rules were different back in Tondisi, where she was a guest of sorts and reliant on the Trikru to keep her alive until they returned her to her people. Now, though, that she has been returned to the Skaikru — at least nominally so — she finds herself struggling to compose a suitable excuse for intruding on what seems to be a separate, private lifestyle. Should she make something up? Lie and say that she’s been sent out as a guard?

As it turns out, excuses are both unreasonable and unnecessary.

At the sound of her approach, Gustus is on his feet, followed by Indra. Neither Anya nor Lexa stir, though both turn in her direction. Clarke tries not to notice how Anya’s face lights up upon seeing that it’s her, and also tries and fails to ignore the warmth that spreads through her chest at the sight. The Alpha’s scent is apparent immediately, flooding her senses. Involuntarily, she feels her tense shoulders relax marginally.

Clarke comes to a halt a few yards from them, a little wary of coming closer when Indra’s hand is so close to her sword. Out of the ring of light cast by their campfire, she hesitates, uncertain.

“What is it, _skai goufa?”_ It is Indra who speaks, her proud, scarred features cast into flickering shadow by the dancing firelight. “Do your people require our presence back in their camp?”

“No,” Clarke answers quickly. “I — no.” It’s a little too dark to tell properly, but she gets that feeling that Lexa is watching her knowingly.

“Then what is it?” Anya is the one who asks this time, her voice a little warmer and more encouraging. “Come closer, Klark; you are half out in the night.” Obediently, feeling as though something is tugging at her feet, Clarke moves closer and into the soft glow of the fire. Here, where they can see her, she feels more hesitant than before.

“What is wrong, Klark kom Skaikru?” Lexa, this time, her warpaint removed and an eyebrow quirked questioningly. “Speak true.” Clarke swallows.

“I — ” whatever words she was going to say, unknown even to her, catch in her throat. “I’m — ” the raising of Lexa’s other eyebrow in warning yanks the words from her throat. _“Beja,_ Heda, I — I’m hungry,” she fumbles in a rush. “Would — would it be all right if I ate with you?” The moment the words are out, she knows she’s done right by telling the truth. Lexa’s eyebrows go back down. At her side, Anya’s eyes are bright.

“Absolutely,” the Commander says smoothly without a moment’s hesitation. “In fact, we were just about to eat. Is the food ready, Jean?” She directs the question at one of the four guards, who are assembled on the opposite side of the fire looking still fierce but distinctly worn out. A nod is her answer.

 _“Sha,_ Heda.” The man who rumbles it out stands and reaches for something within the fire, and Clarke notices for the first time the spit with six large rabbits roasting upon it. As she watches, he slides the animals off the metal rod and onto a flat rock slab, where he begins to cut the meat and distribute it onto plates. A ninth has already been laid out.

“Sit, Klark.” The command from Lexa startles her slightly; shaking herself, Clarke obeys, folding herself onto the ground beside Anya. They sit in silence as Jean finishes cutting up the rabbits; once he is done, Lexa rises to her feet. Behind her, Anya does the same. Being the two Alphas of the group, each takes a plate in hand, and moving back around to the other side of the fire, Lexa hands the plate she holds to Gustus, and Anya gives hers to Clarke.

 _“Mochof,”_ Clarke murmurs. She glances up from her plate to see Anya’s eyes glittering at her.

 _“Pro.”_ She’s back down in the dirt a minute later, having waited for Lexa to get a plate for herself before filling her own. She’s so close that when Clarke moves, they brush elbows.

For the most part, they eat in silence. Clarke gathers that the grounders aren’t big on conversation after a long day’s journey and debate. She’s grateful. Frankly, she thinks that if someone tried to hold a conversation with her right now, she would probably cry. Instead, she is content to eat in silence, listening to the occasional murmurs exchanged in Trigedasleng by the guards on the other side of the fire and trying to pick out a few words.

Where a few weeks ago their language seemed to her to be crude and harsh, Clarke has realized in recent days that it is in fact enormously complex. There are enough remnants of Old Earth English that she can pick a few things up, but mostly, things have been altered with a swiftness that leaves it not much like the Old Language at all. She likens it, in a way, to their culture as a whole; something new and complex that has arisen from the ashes of the old. The Trikru are fascinating. While some of their ways are brutal, Clarke understands that they are that way out of necessity; they are not at all the inhuman, murderous animals that the Hundred first thought them to be. In fact, in many ways, they are more civilized than the Skaikru. Perhaps it has something to do with having evolved with the altering planet, Clarke thinks, instead of being stuck in the unchanging vacuum of space.

It hasn’t taken her long to decide that they are worth getting to know, and Anya . . . Anya has only added to that impetus.

The difference in treatment would almost be enough on its own. Clarke emerged back in Camp Jaha a few hours ago as a leader to her people, one who they thought dead, one whose death they mourned. And yet, when the time came to discuss the alliance that she brokered, they wouldn’t listen to her because of her age, because of her status; her own _mother_ put so little faith in her. Clarke, one who they wished to find and rescue and avenge, was sent out without a word, and when she sought to eat, was fed with regards only to the status that in their eyes designates her place at the bottom of the food chain.

The Skaikru see Omegas as a weak, hormone-driven nuisance, a presence to be tolerated at best, and more often, abused. They suffer neglect and often cruelty at the hands of the Skaikru Alphas, eating last, sleeping less, and taking the brunt of the blame for anything that happens to go wrong. They are punished and mistreated, and if they happen to succumb to their most instinctive urges, they are often put to death. Their natural desire to bear pups is punished, and their need for greater nutrition in order to sustain their bodies is condemned.

Until a week ago, it seemed normal to Clarke, logical; unfair but expected. Then Anya came into her life, and her horror and anger at the treatment that Skaikru Omegas face clued Clarke in to a reality she ought to have faced long ago. The Trikru, as brutal as they are, at least dispense their violence without regard to status. On the ground, Omegas are _revered._ Even amongst her enemies, Clarke has received hospitable, almost preferential treatment. Skaikru grudgingly handed her a plate with less than half of the food the Alphas received; when Clarke emerged outside, the two most powerful Alphas on the ground welcomed her and fed her and a lowly Omega bodyguard with their own hands.

She doesn’t need to be put on a pedestal, but it’s nice, after eighteen years of being mistreated, to be taken care of.

And Clarke _is_ taken care of here. Here, in the circle of safety cast by the glow of the campfire, she is tended to better than her own people would ever think of treating her. Her plate is full, heaped with tender meat and a few small fruits — apples, she’s pretty sure — that Gustus produced from a burlap bag. She is warm out here, beside the crackling fire in the clean air, and more comfortable than she thinks she could ever be again within the confines of Camp Jaha’s steel and mechanical hum. Beside her, Anya is attentive, watching her carefully off and on to ensure that she is safe and satisfied.

Once they are done eating, and have cast the rabbit bones into the fire to a trembling hiss of grease on coals, Clarke finds that she has another matter on her mind. Again, however, she’s not sure how to ask; the hospitality they have extended to her is already so great. It is apparent to the others that she wants to ask something however, for after wiping the grease from her hands in the grass, Anya turns her attention to her with burning eyes. Under her piercing stare, Clarke falters.

“I don’t want to be too presumptuous, but . . .” she begins, then fidgets and bites her lip, casting her eyes down into her lap. She doesn’t want to ask, if only so that she doesn’t have to hear them say no.

Warm fingers grasp her chin, and Clarke is forced to meet Anya’s gaze as her head is tilted upwards.

“Speak to me, little Omega.” It’s a command, burning at the edges and warm all around. Clarke’s cheeks darken.

“May I sleep here with you?” she asks carefully. “I wouldn’t ask, except that — they don’t have a bunk for me yet, and they’re all so angry and impatient because of the Finn thing, and you’re all . . . kinder to me. And maybe they’ll see sleeping out here with you as consorting with the enemy, but maybe I don’t care what they think anymore.” Anya’s expression is solemn.

“Little sky bird,” she murmurs, and Clarke drops her eyes, “you may sleep in a Trikru Alpha’s arms any time you wish.”

A hard breath escapes Clarke, and with it, the tension in her shoulders. Her body settles, the knot in her chest loosening ever so slightly. Something about the open air, the scent of the fire and the food and _Anya,_ is more soothing than anything anyone inside the gates could offer. She has spent the last two nights sleeping within the safe circle of Anya’s embrace, and the knowledge that she will do so again eases her heartbeat to a less frantic pace. Anya’s arms are strong, the crook of her neck warm, and she smells like power and safety and _Alpha._ Clarke may be independent, but she is also an Omega, is also subject to her instincts, gladly so in the days since leaving the Ark, and the thought of sleeping so close to an Alpha so powerful is a balm to her frazzled nerves.

A week ago, this woman was her mortal enemy, but now, there is nowhere that Clarke feels safer than Anya’s arms. It is a complete reversal of what was a convoluted situation to begin with. Perhaps it’s hasty, or even completely ridiculous considering they met a mere week or so ago, but the primary lesson Clarke has learned from being on the ground is to trust her instincts, and her instincts tell her that Anya is safe. Inside the walls of Camp Jaha, there is tension, pressure, stress; out here, there is less. It is as simple as that.

Lexa, she notices, is watching her closely. Her brow is furrowed in what would resemble a frown if she gave way to any outward expression of emotion, which, Clarke has learned, she does not.

“Any Trikru Alpha would be glad of the opportunity to aid a tired, hungry Omega in distress,” she considers aloud. “Your Alphas would not tend to you the same way?”

“They’re not my Alphas.” The second the words leave Clarke’s mouth, she balks a little; she’s not sure what possessed her to say it. It comes out harsh, too harsh; it almost sounds like a reprimand. Immediately, she attempts to rephrase. “I mean, of course they’re — Skaikru, yes; I only meant that I . . . that’s not how they think,” she concludes lamely. “They don’t consider taking care of Omegas a priority, and even if they did, I don’t . . . want it from them.” Suddenly, Clarke feels a little awkward. There’s no way to express what she means without throwing Skaikru under the bus, which she doesn’t want to do for the sake of the alliance, nor does she want to admit that her affections, perhaps, might lie elsewhere.

She doesn’t need to admit it; she can see in Lexa’s eyes that her unspoken words are understood.

“Among us,” Lexa tells her, “you and all other Omegas will be treated with the respect you deserve.” It is a simple statement, made even more so by Lexa’s typically flat, unemotional speech, but in it, Clarke can hear the multitudes of bolder statements none of them feel quite ready to speak aloud.

She is not quite ready to admit to herself the things that make her so uneasy; the discomfort she feels among her own people, for one thing, the increasing inclination to place herself in the company of the Trikru in their stead, but most of all, the ever-growing pull she feels towards Anya. Were they on the Ark, it would be easy, perhaps, to ignore it, to brush aside her blossoming hopes and instincts and emotions. The fact remains, however, that they are not, and that, Clarke is coming to realize, is the entire point.

Being on the ground has opened Clarke to instincts that she didn’t know she possessed, and she feels a deep need to follow them. On the Ark, designation was always a burden. She has never been allowed to feel her instincts, has been cut off from her Omega side all her life by suppressants, and as such, she has never felt the need to behave like one except to rebel against submitting to abusive Alphas on the Ark. But now, feeling for the first time what it actually means to be an Omega, she finds that she has been deprived of something she never even knew she was missing.

On Earth, everything is clear. The moment Clarke stepped out of the drop ship, she could feel it hit her in a rush just like the humid air. Everything about the ground — the dirt, the trees, the air; the wildness of the forest and the feeling of the rain on her skin and sun on her hair — all of it brought back everything that humanity missed out on for nearly a century while trapped up in space. It’s like being on the ground reawakened the animal in all of them, and Clarke has found the feeling absolutely irresistible.

This is what she’s _meant_ to be. Her role, her instincts; everything suddenly makes sense to her now. It was hard to be an Omega while on suppressants in the vacuum of space and to understand what that role meant when she was cut off from her instincts. As far as she was concerned on the Ark, being an Omega simply meant being weak.

Now, though, she can feel everything, and she sees the power in it. She wants to embrace it. Being an Omega doesn’t mean giving up her autonomy; she sees that now. Instead, it means having the strength to give to others while also being her own person. It makes _sense_ with the kind of person she is; a healer, a diplomat, a protector. Suddenly, being an Omega isn’t something strange and external, a label attached to her that doesn’t make any sense. Instead, it serves to explain the deepest parts of her, the basic elements of her personality.

That deep, inner knowledge is drawing her to Anya, and she’s finding that temptation the hardest of all to resist. Just being in the presence of a strong Alpha, fighting with and for her and protecting her from harm, has opened up parts of Clarke that she’s longing to explore. It’s thrilling and comfortable and _irresistible._ Even so, instincts aside, it is _Anya_ that she is attracted to, in a deep and visceral way that’s almost frightening. The Alpha is strong, kind, beautiful; captivating. Clarke has heard of the way that Alphas and Omegas are drawn to one another on Earth, and though on the Ark such relationships were the stuff of legends, she’s finding that it’s quite real indeed — real, and difficult to resist.

And frankly, Clarke doesn’t give a shit anymore. She spent eighteen years of her life being denied the very deepest parts of herself. Now that she has the freedom to, she wants nothing more than to let them loose.

That’s the most dangerous part about this. With the possibility of one or both of them dying in the next few weeks, Clarke won’t act until Mount Weather has fallen, but suddenly, the realization has hit her that she _will_ act once they are safely out of the mountain’s shadow. She is in the presence of an Alpha who will protect her and provide for her and care for her, one who she will protect and provide and care for in return, which is more than she ever dared to dream of. Trying to find the balance in the meantime between giving in a little, enough to satisfy herself, while not losing control entirely, is proving to be a difficult task.

This is the worst possible time to become attracted to someone. It’s risky, inconvenient, and quite frankly ridiculous, considering the fact that they’ve known each other for roughly seven days, two of which they spent actively trying to kill one another. There literally could not be a worse time to feel attraction towards one’s former enemy than while trying to uphold an alliance and fight a war with the aid of a former enemy. The bottom line is that Clarke ought to get ahold of herself.

The real bottom line is that she doesn’t want to.

* * *

Anya has spent the majority of her life doing her utmost to be absolutely outwardly imperturbable. Apparently there was no point in the decades of effort she put in, because all it has taken is one little sky Omega to render those walls completely moot. Twenty-seven years of being mostly alone, save the three precious years spent with her first mate, and she has been turned from a fierce, seasoned general into an embarrassing pile of mush.

The Trikru are still awake, but Clarke, clearly exhausted from her long and emotionally strenuous day, was ready to drop soon after dinner. They’ve all spread out their sleeping pads — a roll of furs each — on the ground, all within a few yards of the fire, and taken up residence on them. Clarke followed Anya onto hers when they first did so, and within minutes was asleep with her back leaning against the Alpha’s chest. She started far away, sitting at the edge of the roll of furs. It didn’t take long, however, for the chill of the air and the stress of the day to pull her into the Alpha’s arms.

Anya felt the Omega’s distress the moment Clarke approached their campfire. Clarke wasn’t necessarily displaying any outward signs of anxiety, but Anya picked up on it nonetheless, her senses attuned to the tense muscles and pinched brow and anxious pheromones. She’s been responding since then by emitting calming pheromones of her own. An Omega’s distress will trigger an Alpha’s in turn, and Anya wants for nothing more than to soothe Clarke’s anxiety. Omegas should not be afraid.

A good Alpha knows that it is their duty to ease an Omega’s pain, and when Clarke approached their campfire this evening, Anya wanted nothing more than to slow Clarke’s racing heart and smooth the lines of hunger from her face; to absorb her fear and heartbreak and warm her shivering body. It is deeply satisfying to have gotten to provide for the little Omega and sense the ache of hunger abate, and to feel her worry lessen in Anya’s presence. Once leaning against the Alpha, Clarke’s heartbeat slowed. Anya’s touch, warm hands on her shoulder and thigh, caused the tightness in her body to lessen by a tiny margin. Right now, she is pressed as close as she can get to Anya’s chest, her face tucked into the crook of the Alpha’s neck to sleepily nuzzle at her scent gland. She is purring quietly, and Anya has to send Gustus a sharp look in order to quell the smirk beginning to spread across his face at the sound.

Her presence among them seems to have wrought a change. The appearance of the Skaikru ambassador in their midst, the fierce Sky Omega with nerves of steel and a heart of gold seeking comfort amongst them, feels like a sign that can’t go ignored. The four guards are silent, contemplative; on her own pallet, Lexa looks deeply thoughtful. Even Indra looks a little less standoffish than usual in the flickering firelight.

Clarke emits a tiny whimper. Automatically, Anya curls over her a little to press closer and tuck the Omega deeper into her neck. They have been still for the last ten minutes, but the quiet sound stirs them all. It is produced in sleep, unattached to physical distress, but the Alphas among them stiffen, and Gustus twitches. Omegas, Anya knows, have an instinctive desire to bond with one another, similar to protective siblings. Even the Beta guards and Indra, who have no impetus to be concerned, look troubled.

Glancing up, Anya makes eye contact with several of them in turn, and the whole circle around the fire exchanges helpless glances.

At last, it is Lexa who speaks.

“If she is their leader, the daughter of someone on their Council, and the clan that has tried to kill her relentlessly since her arrival is kinder to her than her own people,” she mutters uncomfortably, “I do not like to imagine what they do to people for whom they have no regard at all.” Automatically, Anya glances down to check that Clarke is, in fact, deeply asleep. If they are to have this conversation in any capacity, she’s not sure that she wants Clarke to hear it just yet — especially while she’s ensnared in Anya’s arms. She is relieved to see that the Omega is limp and heavy with sleep.

“I do not challenge your judgment, Heda, but I for one do not like to ally myself with a people that treats its most precious citizens with so little respect,” is Indra’s firm interjection. “I noticed walking through that camp that they have a good number of Omegas, and all of them are far too thin and pale.”

“Afraid, too,” Gustus contributes gruffly. “I myself witnessed an Omega interacting with one of their Alphas, and his fear was obvious. I am uncomfortable among them.” It’s a big interjection, coming from him; Gustus does not often insert himself into discussions of politics, preferring instead to devote himself solely to Lexa and her safety.

“I am as well,” is Lexa’s agreement. “But for the moment, our focus must be the Maunon. When we have defeated them, and invited Skaikru into the Kongeda, fair treatment of their Omegas will be a condition of their inclusion.” It’s pragmatic, and being Heda’s word, it is of course final. It doesn’t occur to any one of them to argue. Heda knows best, and her word is law, so the others nod, swallowing their discomfort, and take the cue to go to bed.

Anya, however, for once can’t shake her feelings on the matter. Along with the others busying themselves with preparing for sleep, she moves too to recline on the bedroll. She handles Clarke carefully, not wanting to wake her; it takes a little finagling, but at last she is on her side, the Omega nestled into her chest beneath a pelt of furs, all soft curves and warm skin.

Clarke is still purring.

It’s a position that a week ago, Anya would never have thought to find herself in. A week ago, she was in the mountain, weak with blood loss and starving in a cage with no hope of rescue. Shortly later, she escaped with a mortal enemy, intending to bring said enemy to Lexa to face her death.

Now, her former enemy is purring into the crook of her neck, her sweet scent curling into Anya’s blood, her pulse echoing sweetly in her ears.

It’s an odd position to be in — but then again, considering how quickly conditions change and evolve on the ground, it isn’t strange at all. It’s not exactly new; they’ve spent the last two or three nights more or less cuddled up to each other, though more out of necessity than open desire for contact — at least, that’s what Anya’s telling herself. Perhaps Clarke was her enemy, but now she isn’t, and were it not for the need to maintain the stability of a fragile alliance, Anya would have acted long before now. As it is, she feels the need to respond now, to march into the Skaikru camp and demand justice.

These people have _hurt_ the Omega who is currently curled into Anya’s chest; they have neglected her and rejected her and mistreated her in ways that make Anya feel ill. Were it not for the alliance, she would have already dealt punishing blows to the main culprits and borne Clarke away to a place where she can heal and grow and flourish. She should be provided with a safe and comfortable home, an abundance of food, a warm bed; new furs and clothing to call her own. She should have the opportunity to sleep in the safety of an Alpha’s arms, if she wishes, and to spend her days in the sun and fresh air, among the dirt and trees and rivers, so that her body becomes attuned once again to the rhythms of the earth. As an Omega, she deserves as much, and as _Clarke,_ she deserves even more.

It has scarcely been five days, but the fact of the matter is that Anya is in it a lot more deeply than she cares to admit. She’s not sure she could get out if she tried, and frankly, she isn’t interested in getting out even if she could. She won’t admit it out loud, not now, not yet, but that doesn’t have to stop her from acting on it a little. It _can’t_ stop her, no matter how unwise such actions may be. Several days ago, when Clarke found the room of cages in the mountain and chose to liberate her, her of all people, Anya was intrigued, but things since then have grown and changed to a degree that is nearly worrisome in its ferocity. Over the past few days, intrigue has grown to a grudging respect and later willing partnership, and then, from there, to something deeper for which she doesn’t yet have a name. Whatever this feeling is, it is simple curiosity no more.

As Floukru’s favorite saying goes, _em laik bauna; dis laik lanik-de._ That was the river; this is the sea.

* * *

The horizon is just beginning to faintly glow with a pinkish light when a foot lands by Clarke’s face.

“Better get up, Griffin. Abby’s gonna throw a shit fit if she sees you out here wrapped around miss Tall, Blonde, Alpha Grounder like a baby koala.” Blinking, Clarke struggles to focus her eyes on the figure looming above her. Octavia. The younger girl’s eyebrows are raised at her expectantly, Clarke sees, but far from impatience or disgust, her expression holds only an element of smugness.

The look reminds Clarke, quickly, of exactly where she is.

The air is chilled and feels a little damp with morning dew, but she is warm and dry between a wool blanket on top of her and a thick fur beneath. A steady, easy warmth is at her back, and she becomes aware of Anya wrapped around her. An arm is slung across her waist, a hand cupping the curve of her hip over her jacket. The Alpha’s breath is hot against the back of her neck. Already, the morning looks crisp and dismal, but she is ensconced in Anya’s musky, warm Alpha scent like a second blanket, and it’s doing wonders for easing the tension that she already feels building in her muscles. She hasn’t slept so well since before she got arrested on the Ark. It feels safe here, right, in a way that little else has since reaching the ground, and Clarke takes a moment to bask in it before allowing the strange sinking feeling in her belly to rise.

The she opened her eyes, it was with the distinct feeling of something being wrong. So comfortable and content, it has taken her a moment or two to place it. Then she registers the paleness of Octavia’s face, and something about it brings everything rushing back.

“No . . .” Clarke rolls over and lets her hands come up to cover her eyes. It is with reluctance that she leaves Anya’s embrace, comforting as it is, but the remembrance of the deed that is to be committed today renders her newly incapable of focusing on anything else. With daylight has returned the realization that last night, she condemned one of her friends to death for the sake of the rest of their clan and a clan of people she became allies with two days ago.

God help her, and where, _where,_ is Bellamy?

“O, where — ”

“He got back from his hunting trip early this morning.” Sometimes Clarke is convinced that Octavia can read minds; either that, or Clarke herself is just incredibly predictable. “No doubt he saw you lying here, so I expect you’ll have some explaining to do. I would get in there before he hears it from someone else and gets the wrong idea.”

 _I’ll be explaining a lot more than my sleeping arrangements,_ Clarke thinks wryly. She’s trying not to imagine the look on Bellamy’s face that will undoubtedly display his evolving reaction to each new bit of traitorous information spectacularly. Also — “What’s the wrong idea, exactly?” she wants to know. Scratch that: she doesn’t want to know, but she figures she’d better ask anyway. Likely she’ll find out regardless.

Octavia huffs.

“Anything Murphy comes up with, for starters,” is her pointed reply. “Or Raven, for that matter. I’d steer clear, if I were you.” Clarke’s throat constricts slightly at the reminder of what she overheard last night; she’s not exactly keen on reliving it.

“Have you seen her?” she croaks. The look that Octavia gives her is mercifully not pitying, but there’s an element of sad understanding to it all the same.

“I think she slept by Finn’s cell all night,” she informs her knowingly. “She was lying on the floor when I went around on patrol this morning. I don’t think she slept well.” A pang shoot through Clarke at that, and she feels momentary guilt seize her chest at the thought that she slept like a baby in Anya’s arms while Raven mourned their mutual ex-lover on the hard floor of the Ark. When she meets Octavia’s eyes, she can feel the desperate look on her own face.

“She’s going to kill me,” she says quietly. “She’s going to kill me, Octavia, and I can’t even blame her for it.”

“Well she’s not happy with you, that’s for sure.” Octavia looks like she’s almost going to crack a smile, and while Clarke is nowhere near joining in, she’s grateful in this moment that Octavia isn’t treating her either like a traitor or like an emotional little piece of glass. “I don’t think she’ll kill you, though, because I’m pretty sure like eight Trikru would have her head if she tried.” As true as it may be, the fact doesn’t do much to boost Clarke’s spirits. Ignoring the bite in the air, she sits up, feeling the ache in her muscles from yesterday’s long ride.

“Raven’s my _friend._ How can I do this to her? She’s going to look at me like I’m a monster, and she’s going to be right.”

“She’s not right,” Octavia negates instantly. “You’re not a monster, Clarke; you’re an unwilling leader who was put into a shitty position. It’s not the same. Raven would have made the same decision if it had been Murphy who’d shot those people, and you _know_ that’s true.” It is, but that doesn’t make it any better. “She just doesn’t want to believe that we need them, is all.”

“She doesn’t — I don’t — she wasn’t _there!”_ Clarke exclaims in frustration. “None of you were there, so I’m _sorry_ if nobody believes that the Mountain Men are draining our blood and bone marrow and discarding people’s bodies like _garbage_ for other, drugged people to _eat,_ but as far as I can tell, I’m the only one — ”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” Octavia raises her hands innocently. “It’s not me you need to convince. I know you’re telling the truth, and they know it, too. Raven’s just . . . upset. Understandably, but she’s going to have to get over it. She’s smart, so it’ll be fine in the end. All the same, I’d stay out of punching range.”

“She’s going to hate me forever,” Clarke laments. It sounds like indulgence and self-pity, she realizes, but it’s not; she doesn’t _want_ to be in this position, doesn’t want to put _Raven_ in this position. Dammit, it’s not her fault Finn went out on a killing spree.

Scratch that, it is her fault, but Clarke didn’t very well _ask_ for it, did she?

“Raven is angry and scared and needs someone to blame,” is Octavia’s blunt response. “If it had been me making the same call — which for the record, I would have — it would be me she’d be crying out to hang. Doesn’t change the fact that Finn went batshit on some innocent Trikru villagers. It actually has nothing to do with you, but she clearly doesn’t realize that yet — and neither does your mother, come to think of it. They’re both gonna have their reckoning, and it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but they’ll get there.” As uncomfortable as Clarke still is, she can’t help appreciating Octavia’s frank acknowledgment of the difficulty of her position.

“You think I made the right choice?” she chokes out. Octavia fastens her with a look that’s almost a roll of the eyes.

“Well you sure as hell didn’t make a _good_ choice, but there wasn’t a better one, was there?” She smiles a little grimly. “‘Only choice’ is an oxymoron, Clarke.”

“What is ‘moron’?” Anya’s voice is gravelly with sleep, and it sends a small shiver up Clarke’s spine. Of course this is the part of the conversation that the Alpha tunes in for. Behind her, Anya eases herself sleepily into a sitting position, and in another moment, is wrapped thoroughly around Clarke. Whether there’s any pretense or not of pretending it’s just to ward off the morning chill is a moot point.

 _“Branwada,”_ Octavia translates with a smirk, and right. Clarke forgot that she’s essentially gone native. It seems like it’s been forever since they were on the Ark, but in reality, they’ve only been on the ground for a little over a month. That means it’s been about fourteen months, tops, since Octavia has lived under a floor. Clarke imagines that the younger girl hasn’t ever really had a home before Earth, and now, within a few weeks on the ground, she seems to have inserted herself into Trikru culture like she was born into it. She’s even picked up the language with shocking rapidity. Maybe later, once this awful day is over, Clarke can take some lessons in Trigedasleng from her.

Maybe she’s not the only one who feels out of place among the Skaikru. It occurs to Clarke that, especially among the Hundred, there’s probably a significant number of Arkers interested in leaving the old ways behind and making a new home somewhere else. Now that they’re on the ground, of course, there isn’t technically anything keeping them all in one place. God knows they could all use the personal space.

The possibility of defectors is an interesting one to entertain. She’ll have to consider it more later, of course, when they’re not about to go witness an execution and quite probably start a riot, but it will definitely be worth some consideration.

For the moment, though, Clarke can’t think about Anya, or Octavia, or the number of people who may possibly defect. Today, Finn is going to die.

In less than an hour, actually. She remembers her proclamation last night that the execution is to take place at dawn, which now that she considers it, is something that Lexa is absolutely going to hold her to. Already, the sun is beginning to rise, and she can hear the sounds of the Skaikru beginning to awaken and move about inside the gates.

It’s the last thing she wants to do, but if they want to avoid a riot, they need to go in there and get this over with — soon. Honestly, the less drawn-out this is, the better it is for everyone involved.

 _“Sonop, Heda.”_ Octavia’s eyes are focused on something behind Clarke’s head, and turning, she sees that Lexa is standing behind them, fully dressed in her armor and warpaint.

“Good morning to you, Okteivia kom Skaikru.” Despite her resolve to pay attention to nothing but the horrible deed that is about to be committed, Clarke notices the response, and can’t help cataloguing the translation. _Sonop._ “You and Lincoln know your stations for the morning, I take it?” Having tuned in momentarily, Clarke feels a spark of confusion. Lexa is speaking to Octavia with a familiarity that suggests she has done so before, and now that it occurs to Clarke, there is no reason why Octavia should be outside of the gates before dawn unless for some purpose involving the grounder crew.

“We’re ready, Heda,” Octavia confirms simply, and Clarke’s confusion grows. “I came out to report to Indra. I heard them talking more last night, and even though Kane is on board, it sounds like the guard is going to push every avenue they can to try to block the execution. They probably won’t act if Kane tells them not to, but if Abby is so aggressively against it, they’ll listen to an Alpha over a Beta whether she’s Chancellor or not. Things might get ugly.”

“Then you are aware, I am sure, of what happens if they do,” is Lexa’s retort. She’s standing with her arms folded behind her back, full battle regalia on; facing her with her braids and leather jacket — it looks like Lincoln’s — Octavia looks like a warrior reporting to her commander.

Noting the way that her friend is standing, one foot slightly behind the other in a stance she has noticed Anya and Indra take up, it occurs to Clarke that that’s exactly what she’s doing. To herself, she wonders what exactly went on during the days she was locked inside the mountain.

“I need to talk to them,” she speaks up, drawing both of their eyes. It’s a little early in the morning to sound so resigned to the fact that the day is going to be terrible, but Clarke can’t really see how it’s going to be anything else. “Bellamy, anyway. He can help me get them to listen, maybe; at least we’ll have another Alpha on our side, one who has been here longer and has actual experience with the Trikru. Maybe we can convince my mother not to start a riot.” Clarke feels a little like she’s the one about to be executed, for all the positivity that’s heralding their awakening this morning. She doesn’t really see a way to get through this day without someone throwing a tantrum at best, and more likely, committing murder or treason. She supposes they’re just going to have to do their best. “I need to go find him.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Octavia cautions. “Abby’s been on the rampage looking for you since she got up, and she’s gotten Bell roped into it. Meant to tell you that. You’d better hope you find him before she finds you.” With a groan, Clarke allows her eyes to close momentarily in frustration. It’s too damn _early_ for this.

“Your mother,” Anya speaks up, reminding Clarke abruptly of her presence, “is a piece of work.” Perhaps the words aren’t the kindest, but her warm voice in Clarke’s ear causes Clarke’s belly to flutter. She can feel her heart rate speed up traitorously; pressed so close, she knows that Anya can hear. Now’s really not the time, but apparently her body doesn’t care about politics.

At least that much remains predictable.

“She’s a Council member,” Clarke says with a shrug, as though somehow that explains it. “Her position is the Counter Voter, which means that she’s supposed to come up with opposing arguments to difficult decisions so that it’s harder for the majority to let mob mentality decide the vote. Or she was, at least. I think things changed when they got to the ground.” It’s true, or least it was before the rest of the Ark arrived, so it’s as good an explanation as any. However, it doesn’t do enough to change the fact that from an outsider’s perspective, Abby is being stubborn and combative, and such an impression is dangerous to the stability of the alliance. Clarke understands why her mother is behaving the way she is; it’s not like she’s turned into a heartless politician who wants to kill Finn to appease the grounders. She’s making this decision because it’s necessary. Abby, she knows, is tired of it; tired of the violence, of the difficult decisions, of the sacrifice, but the difference between them is that Clarke has decided that for the moment, she can’t afford to be emotional about it.

 _The Council’s job is to make sure we survive. Mine is to make sure we deserve it._ It’s the way she heard Abby describe her job years ago on the Ark. Doubtlessly, things have happened on the Ark in the past month that make her mother think they don’t deserve it, but Clarke can’t afford to think that way. Regardless of whether they deserve to live or not, they have people they need to save. There are mouths to feed, shelters to build, and mountains to fell, and the fact is that like it or not, Finn is guilty. He has committed murder on a massive scale, murder of innocents, and that cannot stand in any clan.

Why does Clarke seem to be the only one who can see that?

It takes a few minutes of fussing before any of them are ready to head inside. Clarke stumbles to her feet and helps roll up the furs, feeling the ache of yesterday settling into her legs. Thankfully, the clothing she’s borrowed from Anya continues to keep her warm. She’s trying not to give too much thought to the fact that it makes her look like one of them, almost like Anya has laid a claim to her. Her clothes were dirty, she justifies to herself. It’s reasonable. She just hopes that Abby doesn’t notice.

Once they’ve broken up camp, it’s decided that she and Octavia will re-enter the compound ahead of the rest. It’s best if they’re not all seen entering together, and with only roughly three-quarters of an hour left until full sunrise, Clarke has to find Bellamy fast if she wants to talk to him before Finn is brought out. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen afterwards, but she wants the benefit of having a clear conversation before things potentially turn ugly. She can’t fathom what the rest of the day might be like. Right now, she just has to focus on finding Bellamy and getting his support before the execution, and hopefully avoiding Abby in the process.

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to go far. Bellamy is at the temporary shed they’ve set up for hunting supplies just inside the gate. He’s engaged in a conversation with Lincoln, and his eyebrows are pinched together in confusion and frustration. By the look of it, Lincoln’s just told him about the ban on guns. With dawn signifying the start of the alliance, the return of this hunting party is the last call for weapon collection; Octavia has mentioned that the rest were confiscated late last night. By some god’s mercy, he doesn’t appear angry, just confused and unwilling to surrender his weapons to the grounders without confirmation from a higher authority.

Clarke doesn’t realize until now how much she’s missed him.

 _“Bellamy.”_ It’s all it takes, the sound of his name, for him to turn. Instantly, his eyes light up.

“Clarke!” She’s already halfway to him when he begins to jog towards her, so that they collide together right under the nose of Gustus’s horse. Immediately, he sweeps her into a tight hug, shaking her a little in his enthusiasm. Abruptly, though, he releases her and steps back, keeping her at arm’s length with his nose wrinkled. “What the — ?”

“Eau de grounder,” Octavia calls out from across the small paddock, where she and Lincoln wear identical smirks. “Better take a bath, Griffin, before your mom catches a whiff.” Clarke can feel her cheeks redden slightly at the insinuation, but quickly decides that now is not the moment, and pushes down her embarrassment.

“Bellamy, thank god you’re here, I need to talk to you. My mom — ”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Bellamy interrupts, eyeing her through squinted eyelids a little suspiciously, but ultimately with a look that tells her he’s glad to see her back. “You’re alive, Clarke; give me a minute to let it sink in.”

“Later,” she brushes him off impatiently. “Listen, we have a situation.” A small, rueful chuckle escapes him.

“When don’t we?” he points out dryly. “Just hang on a minute, will you? We kind of thought you were dead you know. Where the hell were you? We got back to the drop ship and you were all gone, so . . . hang on. The others — ”

“Are alive,” she cuts across him quickly, seeing the way that worry begins to rise in his face. “At least I think they still are, for now.” Immediately, his expression changes from one of relief to one of concern.

“Mount Weather . . . ” he begins. “You were in Mount Weather, weren’t you? That’s where they took you.” He looks like he’s begun to understand already that something is amiss; what, though, she knows he’ll never guess.

“They took us,” she confirms, and finds that she has to fight down the rising nausea that accompanies the memory. “We thought they were good people, Bellamy, but they’re not, they’re monsters; they’re taking the grounders and draining their blood for medicine, and they’ve figured out that our bone marrow will work better, so they’re going to start taking it. Soon. So I escaped with Anya, and we went to Tondisi and spoke to the Commander, and now we have an alliance except Finn shot a bunch of villagers and now we have to kill him and my mother isn’t going to let us and you were away on a goddamn _hunting trip.”_ Once the story begins to come out, it comes out fully, in a flood that becomes more hysterical the further into it she gets.

By the time she finishes, Bellamy is staring at her with his eyes blank. He doesn’t look like he’s having trouble believing her, which she’s grateful for, because Bellamy doubting her right now is the last thing that she needs, but she isn’t certain the words have entirely sunk in.

“Bellamy?” she tries tentatively. The word seems to rouse him; blinking, he shakes his head once, and hurriedly, she presses on. “Listen, I know it sounds unbelievable, but I need — ”

“Finn shot some villagers?” Bellamy interrupts shortly. Of all the parts to fixate on, she’s not sure why he’s chosen this, but the question is sharp enough that she answers without question.

“Yes, all unarmed, and now Lexa — I mean, the Commander — says that there won’t be an alliance if we don’t execute him, and we need the alliance to rescue everyone inside Mount Weather, but my mom is furious. She’s angry that I made the decision without consulting the Council, and we’re not sure that she won’t try to undermine it, and if she does, it puts everybody inside that mountain at risk.” Clarke’s not sure how to convey to him the current level of urgency. With every minute they waste, Finn’s execution draws nearer, as well as an opportunity Abby and the others might take to stop it.

She doesn’t know how to get Bellamy to understand how critical the situation is, only that she has to. After all they’ve been through since reaching the ground, it is in this moment that she finds herself needing him the most. They’ve fought and argued and led with opposing methods, and from there grown to an odd, close friendship that even she can’t explain, but right now, she just needs him to believe her.

“You made the decision to execute Finn so that we could save the rest of them?” Bellamy asks her, and tilting her head up, she sees him staring down at her with an unreadable expression. She heaves out a desperate breath.

 _“Yes,_ Bellamy, but — ”

“When?” This time, the question is hard, swift; simple. Startled, Clarke’s hysteria spins to a halt.

“I — now,” she answers him. “At sunrise.” Bellamy stares. For a moment, he is motionless, and she to mirror him, the two of them a foot apart on the muddy ground outside the horse paddock, sweaty and filthy and exhausted, locked in a staring contest.

Then, with a short jerk of the head, he nods.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s go find Abby.”

* * *

Clarke’s relief brought on by Bellamy’s cooperation is short-lived. It’s such a huge relief to have him on her side that for a few minutes, she allows herself to feel respite, but that feeling is quickly quashed by the notion of confronting her mom. Once again, they don’t have to go far to find the object of their search; Abby is waiting for them in the med bay. She’s covered in blood, looking exhausted — apparently a kid fell on a piece of scrap metal and sliced an artery, and the surgery took most of the night. When the two of them enter the room, her expression is tighter than Clarke has seen it since the night Jake Griffin was put in the airlock chamber.

“Clarke,” Abby greets with a sharp edge to her voice. Hearing it, Clarke is tired already. “I assume you’ve come to apologize for your display last night?” She sounds haughty and self-righteous in a way that’s rare for her; the late night seems to have brought out her Alpha a little more than usual. Noticing it, Clarke is grateful for Bellamy’s presence. Not that she can’t hold her own with her mother — if anything, last night proved that she can — but with everything going on, she’s simply not in the mood to deal with a pissed off Alpha who thinks she can order Clarke around simply because she’s an Omega and her child.

“Actually, I’m here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” The minute the words are out, Clarke winces; she may be frustrated, but provoking Abby isn’t going to do them any favors. Gritting her teeth, she makes a concerted effort to soften her tone. “I mean . . . no, I’m not here to apologize, but I want to make sure that we’re not misunderstanding each other,” she reiterates a little more smoothly. She’s relieved to hear the combative edge has mostly left her voice; glancing sideways, she sees Bellamy shoot her a grateful look.

Abby, however, appears to be having none of it.

“Oh, I don’t think we are,” she says, in a tone that tells Clarke that they are definitely, in fact, doing just that. The child she was performing surgery on has been moved to recovery, but she’s still covered in blood and gripping a sharp scalpel, and the image doesn’t exactly invite confidence. “It’s clear that while we both want what is best for our people, you are willing to do atrocious things to achieve it in the easiest way possible, whereas I, on the other hand, have the ability to recognize when taking the longer route is necessary to preserve our humanity.” And all right, Clarke knew that this was going to be difficult, but really? They’ve fought tooth and nail to land humanity back on the ground, been separated for over a month with no knowledge of if or when they were ever going to see each other again, and this is how Abby chooses to see their differences? Clarke was prepared to go into this argument calmly, but she finds that she’s rapidly losing patience.

“You think that making the decision to kill Finn was _easy?”_ she asks in disbelief. “Do you honestly think that, given any other choice, I wouldn’t have done anything I could to avoid it?” Abby raises her eyebrows in a way that, somehow, looks positively vicious. Casting the scalpel down upon a bench, she folds her bloody arms across her chest.  
“I suppose you think the grounders are right in their barbarian justice system,” she says snidely. “Obviously, you believe killing a teenager is a suitable punishment.”

“For _mass murder,_ maybe I do!” Clarke retorts with equal ferocity. “Do you think we should just let a murderer go free?” Abby’s eyes flash.

“I think that we should consider, Clarke, that we have all done terrible things to survive, and that perhaps what we are right now is not what we will always be,” she counters waspishly. Clarke’s eyes fall closed for a moment. Why, _why,_ is Abby absolutely determined to make this already difficult decision as painful as possible?

“That’s the _point,”_ she reminds her. “We were at war with the Trikru, but we’ve put aside our differences because we know that we can be better, and can work together to defeat a common enemy.” Clarke isn’t really sure what it is about this that everyone is finding so difficult to swallow. Logic is logic, no matter how unpleasant of an answer it might give. Maybe she’s new to this whole leadership thing, but honestly, she doesn’t think she’s been doing the worst job. She’s damn well kept them alive, hasn’t she?

“And yet you would have us ally ourselves with a people that has brought us nothing but suffering!” Abby is gesticulating now, sending a few blood droplets scattering across the room. Beside her, Bellamy is beginning to look alarmed.

“You seem to think that for some reason I _want_ our people to go to war,” Clarke snaps irritably. Christ, it’s not like she _asked_ for this. Bellamy, at least, understands that. Bellamy, who right now seems to know better than to try to interject himself into the middle of this particular argument.

“You are consorting with the enemy!” Abby exclaims, but Clarke has had enough. She can’t stand the arguments anymore. This is _Finn’s execution_ that they’re talking about. Maybe the conversation initially was about him, but it has become more a debate about democracy, about morality, about whether or not Clarke is following Abby’s prescribed idea of what is right, even though she has been on the ground for longer. It may be important, but it feels trivial, even disrespectful, to turn the conversation to this when a boy’s life is at the crux of the argument. It feels like they have put their energy to things that shouldn’t matter when a friend is going to be put to death. When did they become this?

“Yes, I am ‘consorting with the enemy,’ and you’d better too if you want what’s best for us; we have a new enemy now, and we’re going to fight them together, so excuse me for being civil towards our very populous, very vicious, well-trained allies.” She is careful to emphasize the last part. Killing Finn is a horrible, horrible truth, but true also is the fact that Lexa and the rest of Trikru are excellent allies to have in a war such as this. She wouldn’t have made this decision if they weren’t.

“They’re _barbarians,_ Clarke!” Abby hisses. Clarke doesn’t exactly flinch, but the word makes her nose wrinkle in discomfort. She thinks of the Council sending the Hundred to the ground to save themselves, and the thought is immediately followed by the memory of Lexa, the Commander of the enemy army, providing for Clarke like one of her own. Omegas eat first, justice is served, and honor is upheld.

Barbarians indeed.

“These _barbarians,_ Mom, have three critical things that we don’t have: people, weapons, and experience. You think some pansy-ass little guard who’s spent his entire life patrolling the Ark for _pillow thieves_ is going to be able to wage a war against an unknown enemy in a territory he’s never been in? The Trikru have been fighting wars against the Maunon in these forests since the bombs fell, Mom; it’s how they’ve survived. They’ve been fighting for their lives and for food and for land for almost a century. We’ve been watering a potted plant and playing chess in space.” A heavy silence follows her words. Abby is staring at her like she’s something disgusting someone chewed up and spat back out on her feet.

“I can’t believe you, Clarke,” she says at last. She’s shaking her head as if in dismay. “I understand your resentment towards me, but our people have endured tragedy since the Ark’s formation. This is not a _game,_ Clarke; you can’t just play with people’s lives as though their pawns in order to get the outcome you want. That’s not what leadership is. Of course, you’re a child; you have no experience as a leader — ”

“Should have thought of that before you sent a bunch of underage criminals down here without one, shouldn’t you?” At her side, Clarke’s fists are clenched. She’s struggling not to inhale; the air is smothering her with the combined pheromones of Abby, who is furious, and Bellamy, who is trying his best to mediate but not succeeding very well. The combination is rank and potent, and it makes Clarke feel vaguely ill. On the Ark, the suppressants were effective so that she never noticed pheromones, but on Earth, her nose has become exceptionally sensitive. Each change in emotion holds its own flavor, and this stench is a far cry from the warm scent in which she was ensconced earlier today. Something curls in her belly at the memory, and subconsciously, Clarke finds herself pulling her shoulders in a little tighter, wrapping an arm around her own waist in mimicry of the one that tucked her close beneath warm furs as the morning dawned.

“You’re sacrificing one for the good of the rest!” Abby, it seems, is employing a method of argument where she entirely ignores Clarke’s points in favor of making her own, more aggressive ones. She’s fallen back on repeating her logic from last night, which is pointless, Clarke thinks. Alpha or not, her mother isn’t the Chancellor; Kane is, and the decision has been made. She’s pretty sure Abby realizes what she’s doing, which means that her mother is getting desperate. Desperate Abby has always been a force to be reckoned with. Desperate Abby is who came up with the idea to offload a hundred children from a space station in order to give her daughter a chance to live.

“I made the same decision you did when you killed Dad, and when you sent me down to Earth to die,” Clarke says softly; she’s done yelling. She’s too tired, too upset, too sick of being trodden upon to continue fighting with the same vehemence. If Abby wants to kick her, she’s going to have to kick her while she’s down. The guilt will be her own. _“Mom,_ please. I’ve been fighting to keep everyone alive since before we even hit the ground, Bellamy too, and for the most part, we’ve done an okay job. We’re certainly not going to stop now when all of our people are about to be tortured and killed so that the people inside Mount Weather can live. We are _going_ to rescue them, and we’re going to do what has to be done — and what is _right_ — in order to do it. Kane understands that. So you don’t have to agree with us, but if you’re not willing to help us . . . we’re going to have to ask you to stay out of our way.” Clarke feels heavy with the proclamation, the same leaden weight stealing into her body that did so last night as soon as the Council Room door shut behind her. All the fighting, all the tough decisions, all of it, is getting to be exhausting. Clarke just wants to sleep, and maybe to sit and draw parts of this beautiful new world they’ve landed in. She wants to enjoy Earth without it being a war zone.

Clarke doesn’t want to be involved in a war. She knows that some, like Bellamy, thrive off of the fight, off of the tension. She herself wants nothing more than to find peace on the ground and make it her home. It is times like this that Clarke feels Jake’s influence shining through; she wants what is best for her people, but most of all, she wants to lead a quiet, humble, honest life in the company of people that she loves. Is that truly so much to ask?

“Sorry, Abby.” Bellamy is quiet when he speaks up, but firm in a way that Clarke, in her exhaustion and desperation and disbelief, hasn’t quite been able to manage. “I know that the decisions we’ve all had to make to stay alive have been . . . unconscionable, but our people need us. They need us to come rescue them, and to stop this war with the grounders, and like it or not, Finn is guilty,” he reminds. “He admitted it himself; he shot over twenty unarmed grounders, many of them children.”

“It’s not the justice I take issue with,” Abby says sharply, and really? She won’t listen to Clarke, their leader, her own _daughter,_ but she’ll have a civil conversation with _Bellamy,_ and _why?_ Because he’s an _Alpha._ Clarke has to struggle not to throw up her hands in defeat. “It’s the brutality of it. Punishment is one thing; this death by a thousand cuts is quite another. I’m simply struggling with the idea that you are allowing the grounders to dictate what justice shall be served for the crimes of an underage child who is one of our own.”

“Of course, but nobody’s asking Clarke — Clarke?” Bellamy breaks off, seeing that she has frozen, staring at Abby with a strange expression on her face. “Clarke, you okay?”

Mechanically, Clarke nods.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, but she isn’t really paying attention. Something has just occurred to her. “I . . . I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll see you both later.” Without further ado, she’s pushing past Bellamy and moving out of the room as fast as she possibly can. Behind her, she can sense Bellamy and Abby watching her go in utter bewilderment.

With the speed brought on by her realization, it only takes a minute or two for Clarke to navigate her way through the Ark hallways crowded by newly woken Skaikru and to bolt across the yard to where the Trikru have just begun to enter the encampment.

“Anya!” At the sound of her name, the Trikru Alpha looks up from her horse. Clarke watches her glance around for the source before her eyes settle on Clarke and her expression lights up the tiniest bit.

“Klark,” she greets smoothly as the Omega comes racing up, skidding to a halt in front of her and struggling for a moment to retain her balance in the mud. “I thought you wished to find your friend? Or are you in need of our assistance?”

“No, no, I found him,” Clarke waves aside breathlessly, bending over a little as she wheezes, trying to catch her breath. “Anya,” she continues urgently. “By our laws, anyone younger than eighteen is underage. Would a criminal who is underage still be sentenced to death?” Considering for a moment, Anya nods uncertainly.

“Yes,” she says slowly, “if the crime is great enough.” Clarke’s face twists momentarily, but the set of her mouth is determined.  
“But would they die a death by a thousand cuts, or would they just be executed?” she asks quickly. Anya considers that for a moment.

“An underage child who has committed a crime of a great degree is simply executed,” she says carefully. “But I must warn you that — ”

It’s too late; Clarke has already gone tearing off in the direction in which Lexa just disappeared, blonde hair flying out behind her like a beacon in the faint glow of the rapidly approaching sun.

* * *

It is nearly time.

The entire camp is still mostly shrouded in darkness, though the glow in the eastern sky has begun to tinge the metal of the Ark with hues of pink and rosy gold. The yard is filled to the bursting with Skaikru citizens. At the front are positioned the surviving members of the Council, including Abby, the guards, and the Ark’s Alphas. Further back, the Betas and Omegas crowd as close as they can on the muddy ground, straining to catch any words being spoken on the thin, chilly wind that is slicing through everyone’s clothes. In the back, Clarke thinks that she spots Raven, wobbly on crutches at Abby’s side.

Having her up there by Abby is a statement, she knows; Raven is an Omega, and should be in the back, but this is hearkening back to the Ark’s traditions at the airlock chamber. The condemned’s loved ones have always been permitted to stand and witness the execution. To bring Raven forward, Clarke understands, is Abby’s not-so-subtle way of preserving their identity as a separate clan; perhaps even as a statement that _they,_ at least, unlike the grounder savages, are merciful and allow their citizens to honor their convicted loved ones.

At the front of the crowd, off to the side, Lincoln and Octavia stand in close proximity to Indra and the Trikru guards. The wind lifts Octavia’s braids from her shoulders and catches in the guards’ heavy beards, but unlike the Skaikru, they do not shiver. Their thick leather battle clothes are substantial enough to ward off the morning chill, and their backs are ramrod straight, faces arranged in a soldier’s carefully impervious ambivalence. Near them stand Anya and Bellamy, several yards apart to show their lack of connection but not so far that one might view their distance as that of enemies. Even so, every time time the wind picks up and catches Bellamy downwind, Clarke sees his nose wrinkle the tiniest bit. Even while maintaining a facade of neutrality in the interest of politeness, he is clearly giving the other Alpha a wide berth.

At the very front stand three more: Lexa, face impassive as always; Gustus, vigilant and devoted among this crowd of enemies; and Clarke.

The three of them are arranged before the small clearing of flattened earth, on which stands the tall oak pole where Finn is tied.

Up on the post with the wind ruffling his hair, he looks the same as he always has: handsome and a little cheeky, his eyes dark and magnetic with mischief. He looks like the boy they all called Spacewalker, the one who looked like he’d risk a month of oxygen for a jaunt out in the open air, who would do it because it was simply pure fun.

There isn’t a sound besides the wind rippling through their clothes as Kane address the crowd.

“Today,” he tells them all, “marks the dawn of a new phase of our life upon the ground.” His voice carries across the crowd with little effort, stilling the last fidgets of citizens still yawning their sleepiness in the dark. “For ninety-seven years, our people have fought for survival and the preservation of the human race. We thought we were alone, that the burden of humanity’s survival lay with us. It has become apparent that this is untrue.” He does not gesture to Lexa, but Clarke sees eight hundred eyes flicker to where the Commander stands, stiff and tall, her eyes cool beneath the webbing of her warpaint. Sensing their gazes, Kane allows a pause to settle before he continues.  
“Our first days upon the ground have been marked by bloodshed,” he goes on. “The people whose ancestors survived the bombs saw our arrival as a threat, as well they might have. We greeted them with similar violence. Today, that violence comes to an end.” He pauses again, and when he continues, he speaks with new strength in his voice that rings out across the gathered crowd. “Today marks the commencement of a treaty between our people and theirs, an alliance that we have formed so that together, we may work to rescue our people who have been taken hostage by the citizens of Mount Weather. I hope that you will join me in celebrating this victory, for while it is small and incomplete, it is another step on the road to rescuing our people and regaining peace so that we may live together in harmony in our home on the ground.” A small murmur rises at that; Kane allows it to simmer for a moment, and it dies out soon of its own accord.

“However,” he goes on, “there is a matter to which we must first attend. Before we may have peace, we must have justice.” The murmur rises again, and this time, with the lifting of Kane’s hand, it is quelled. From where she stands, Clarke can see how his dark eyes glitter in the dissipating dark as he looks out over the crowd. “Finn Collins has committed the murder of twenty-one innocent Trikru citizens, many of them unarmed women, children, and elders. Three served in the guard of the Trikru Commander. In accordance with Trikru and Ark law, as punishment for his crimes, his death sentence will be carried out on this day at sunrise, to serve justice for the fallen and to mark the beginning of the slate being wiped clean so that our peace may finally begin.” A deathly silence meets his words. Clarke doesn’t dare to chance a glance at Raven for fear of what she might find.

Alone at the front of the crowd, Kane turns his back on the assembled citizens of the Ark, and bowing his head before Finn, he recites the Traveler’s Blessing.

“In peace may you leave the shore . . . In love may you find the next . . .”

Though Clarke doesn’t utter them aloud, she finds her lips soundlessly forming the words as she follows along.

“Safe passage on your travels . . .” Behind them, the rest of the Ark has joined in, over four-hundred voices murmuring together the sacred words.

“ . . . Until our final journey to the ground.” The last words breathe out of Clarke’s mouth in a whisper.

“May we meet again.”

A hush has fallen. At the fringes of the crowd, the Trikru appear slightly startled. Even Lexa, unmoving, seems to have something behind the mask within her eyes.

On the pole, Finn is watching them, but his eyes are only on Clarke. When she steps forward, it feels as though the mud on her feet weighs more than the Earth itself, reaching up its soggy tendrils and binding her to it as though urging her to stay put and take root. The knife in her hand is cold against her skin.

“Come to do me in, Princess?” There’s nothing taunting in Finn’s voice today. His breath is strained and shallow as a result of the way he’s tied, arms above his head, ribcage pulled unnaturally taut. There’s a sad, playful sort of smile in his eyes as she approaches him, and the sight of it makes an unbearable ache sweep up through her.

She stops, a foot or so away. The air around them is beginning to be fully light, but the last corners of the darkness linger, and with them, the unmoving, binding spell of the night. The space between them is so small, so insignificant seeming when it occurs to her that the crossing of it is all that is left between here and the end. In this moment, twelve inches seem as vast as the entirety of space. How incredible to think that once upon a time, all she wanted to do was make it as small as she could and fit into it with him, not knowing that it was already occupied. Now she can see how futile, how impossible such a hope was. No matter how far their curiosity may reach, humans have never been able to travel beyond what they can touch.

Hers will be the last touch he'll ever know.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is a whisper, lost on the wind. It’s untrue, but in this moment, what else is there to say? His eyes are soft in the shadowy light, and she knows that he hears it for what it is. Finn has always known what she means. “I love you,” she adds, and though it is even less true, in this quiet space, it feels more. He seems to understand that, too, for his lip curls upwards, and for a second, Finn is actually smiling.

The knife slips into his heart with the words, and for a heartbeat they huddle there together, clustered in the core of his being.

“Thanks, Princess,” he whispers. In the instant before the light fades out of him, there’s a second where his eyes are smiling the way they were when all of them first reached the ground. Clarke chokes back a sob at the memory of it: the way his face lit up with awe at the sound of the birds and sight of the sunlight streaming through the trees.

In a second, when the sun hits the edge of the post, he’ll be a dead mass murderer, but for a last, quiet moment, he’s just a boy with bright eyes.

* * *

The more Anya is around the Skaikru, the more her understanding grows that this alliance may very well be doomed.

It has nothing to do with the fact that Clarke’s mother, among many others, seems quite likely to do anything in her power to put a stop to this collaboration before it even has a chance to get its footing. It isn’t due, either, to the discomfort and fury the Trikru all feel at the Skaikru’s blatant mistreatment of their Omegas, their general and frankly cosmic ineptitude, or their shocking inability to understand the simple logic of warfare. No. It’s that the more time Anya spends in their presence, the more she hears from Clarke about their ways, the more she becomes aware of just how wide the cultural gap actually is.

The Skaikru are a completely different clan, with their own separate traditions, culture, laws, values, and belief systems, very few of which line up with any of those belonging to the Trikru. The recitation of their Traveler’s Blessing, as Clarke called it, reminded her of that; the Skaikru are not like Azgeda, who while they are almost universally despised, are at least a known entity. They know nothing of these sky people. So far as she can tell, the only thing they truly have in common is that their three leaders — Lexa, Clarke, and Kane — share the common goal of peace and a safe homecoming for their people. Perhaps it’s a good thing that they have no further aspirations, because from what Anya has seen, she’s not sure that they’ll be able to handle much of anything else. Strange bedfellows make for even stranger pillow talk.

Oh, and the more she’s around them, the more they get on her nerves.

She’s rapidly learning that, too.

After the execution, the crowd filtered out a bit. There were some protests, but mostly, Kane appears to be keeping them under control, so that the larger group broke off into a few smaller gatherings, some of which continue to mutter and cast dark looks in Trikru’s direction. Mercifully, Indra hasn’t yet noticed; Anya has a feeling she’s going to take the head off of the next person to shoot Lexa a disrespectful glance.

She thought this was supposed to be about brokering _peace._

At the moment, Anya doesn’t have the patience to stomach it. She and Clarke have worked for days for this moment. They escaped the mountain for this moment, and Anya isn’t about to let her freedom and second chance to make a difference go to waste. Right now, though, the simple fact of the matter is that she’s exhausted. Her wounds ache, her head aches, and her stomach does a little bit too, though she has a feeling that has more to do with the fact that they haven’t yet eaten breakfast than the execution. Peace brokering can wait until after she’s had something to eat.

She spends a minute or two scanning the crowd for Clarke, wondering if she wants breakfast, but the Omega appears to have disappeared. Anya can hardly blame her. Between the Trikru whose family members she’s killed and the Skaikru, whose child she has now executed, she certainly has more enemies than friends at the moment. As she understands it, this boy Finn was a friend of hers as well. It is natural that, for the moment, she may want to be alone. Anya will have to suffer through their morning meal without her presence, for once.

Strange how quickly she has grown accustomed to having the Omega in her life.

Thus resigned, Anya turns towards the gates, intending to find a secluded spot outside the paddock to take a meal with Lexa and Gustus, who are already outside. Before she can take more than a few steps, however, she finds her way blocked by a mite of a Skaikru man.

He’s an Alpha, that much she can tell, though his scrawny limbs and short stature make him look more like an overgrown child who has not yet presented. He’s clad in the same, worn-out Old Earth clothes that all of the Skaikru wear, which doesn’t add to his ability to be intimidating. However, he’s got an air about him that suggests he means business. He’s underfed, but he’s angry, and within moments, Anya finds herself faced with a brandishing homemade sword.

“You! You killed my daughter, grounder barbarian filth!” His voice is hoarse and gravelly, and though the effect is almost comical, Anya doesn’t smile. She does not doubt the truth of his words, but right now, she’s in no mood to engage. His hysteria is embarrassing to behold.

“Step aside.” She gives the command almost tiredly; not the way Lexa would give it, lazily and with the absolute confidence of being certain to be obeyed. “I do not wish to kill you too, today.”

“You talk so casually about murder? Barbarians. _Barbarians._ You murdered our children, and you’ll pay!” He spits in her face. “You’re _pigs,_ the lot of you — filthy, savage — ” He seems to lose track of his own words, fumbling a little with his mouth before discarding the sword and fumbling instead with something in his pocket. A moment later, his hand re-emerges from the tattered fabric, and this time, Anya feels her blood grow slightly chilled.

In the _skayon’s_ hands, glinting in the morning light, is a gun.

Slowly, Anya raises her hands above her head in a show of surrender, but it is clear now that the Skaikru man isn’t interested in diplomatic discussion. Around them, a small crowd has stilled and is watching them, frozen.

“I’m not playing games,” he says quietly, and this time around, his voice is much steadier, made calmer by the presence of the weapon in his hand. “You killed my daughter. Blood must have blood, you say? I think I’ll be having it, then.” A click announces that he has switched off the safety, and Anya tenses, bracing her body for impact.

In an instant, Clarke is stepping in front of her with a snarl.

“Touch her, and you die.” It’s not clear where the Omega comes from; one moment Anya is facing the rogue Skaikru man alone, and the next, Clarke is emerging out of nowhere from the crowd of Skaikru gathered around them. Her words are uttered coldly, mercilessly; there is no hint in them of the grieving, stoic girl who only minutes ago pressed a knife into her old friend’s heart with tears blooming in her ice blue eyes. No; Clarke is all fire and fury, those same eyes empty of tears and flashing viciously as another growl rises from her throat.

When at first the Skaikru man makes no move to lower his weapon, a second snarl escapes, louder than the first, and Clarke takes a step backward without breaking eye contact. In a moment, her back collides with Anya’s chest. The Alpha stumbles a little, intending to step back so that they are not pressed so close, before a hand closes tightly around her wrist, and she understands that _close_ is precisely Clarke’s intention. Her movement was not a retreat. While taking a metaphorical step between Anya and a loaded gun, Clarke has also positioned herself so that, for the second time in their days together, her body is fully acting as Anya’s shield.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” Clarke continues coldly, when the man still fails to openly respond to her presence. “I believe I told you to leave her alone.” Still holding his gun aloft, the man sneers.

“You’re siding with them; we all knew you would. Disgusting Omega traitor,” he spits. The pressure of Clarke’s weight against Anya increases ever so slightly. Her body is tense, nestled firmly against Anya’s as she blasts the man with pheromones. Clarke’s general irritation with Skaikru is one thing; this is entirely another. This is pure protective Omega, fierce and territorial. The Skaikru Alphas may strive to make their Omegas submit through coercion and abuse, but Clarke in this moment is a force to be reckoned with.

Anya’s breasts press into the Omega’s back through her armor, and as Clarke settles herself more firmly against the Alpha’s front, her nipples brush against the fabric with a little more force; without her permission, her body betrays her with a shiver.

“There are no sides anymore, Felix. Your second priority is remembering that. Your first is listening to me when I tell you to leave her alone if you value your life. My mother and I may not be in agreement on matters of the Council, but she is still the Chancellor, and I doubt your threats will stand as valid in her court of law. Now _back. Off.”_ Clarke and the man are locked in warring gazes, a fierce, silent exchange taking place between them. Clarke’s body is stiff and unrelenting, but Felix is planted firmly where he stands. He is letting off a stinking wave of nauseating Alpha pheromones, and Anya can see the way his lip curls in disgust at the ferocity of the Omega before him. For a moment, it appears as though he won’t heed Clarke’s words.

Then, after a moment that seems to stretch into infinity, he scowls, and clicks the safety back on as he lowers the gun.

With the immediate danger gone, a murmur begins to rise in the crowd around them, but Clarke doesn’t waste any time to stay and listen. Seizing Anya’s hand, she drags her across the yard, far away from where the horde has begun to converge on Felix in a cacophony of excited chatter. Clarke ignores them, moving with purpose towards the other end of the encampment. Once they have reached the small paddock near the gates, Clarke halts and turns to face her. She drops their joined hands as she does; scolding herself inwardly, Anya does her best to ignore the burn of loss that the action brings.

Oddly, once she has released Anya’s hands, Clarke hesitates. She made a concerted effort to drag Anya over here as quickly as possible, but now that they’re out of the mayhem, she appears to have lost her focus. As Anya watches her, she fidgets, staring at the ground. Her shoulders are hunched, her eyes troubled. The switch from spitting, protective Omega to uncertain young woman is abrupt and, so far as Anya can tell, not precipitated by anything tangible.

“You need to go.” Anya blinks in surprise when Clarke gathers herself into speaking. Go? “Outside,” Clarke amends quickly, seeing the Alpha’s confusion. Her speech, sharp and definitive, is at odds with her manner. She appears strangely distracted, her brow furrowed with something that looks like an odd mesh of distress and contemplation. “It’s not safe in here for you right now, okay? I heard Lexa talking about setting up a war tent on the next hill for the leaders to gather and discuss battle plans, so I’d like you to go there and wait for me. Please,” she adds when Anya makes to question her. “I know the leaders are meeting soon, so I’ll be out in a few minutes, but there’s something I need to do first.”

Again, watching her intently, Anya notes that her eyes are troubled. It almost looks as though she’s made up her mind about something and is uncertain about having done so. Anya’s first instinct is to soothe, her second to inflict punishment on whoever may have caused such upset, but Clarke in this moment seems oddly distant. The best course of action, she senses, is to do as asked so as not to add to the Omega’s distress.

Nodding, Anya inclines her head and turns to leave.

“Wait.” One foot in the air, Anya halts. Turns.

Her cheek is still wet with saliva. In one deft movement, Clarke reaches up with her sleeve, and gently wipes it off. The corner of her lips quirks ever-so-slightly.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” she repeats. “I’ll see you soon, just — please go out there where you’re safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Anya frowns in puzzlement. A Skaikru idiom, no doubt, but one that she doesn’t have context for.

“What would you not do?” she asks before she’s fully out the gate. She almost means it as a joke — though she’s not quite sure of how to make it so — or as something light; something to bring a bit of life back into Clarke’s eyes. She knows how the blonde enjoys the complexities of their linguistic differences.

Clarke’s expression, though, is even more troubled than before.

“That’s just it,” she says quietly. “I don’t know.” The gate falls shut, and her face is hidden from view.

In the cold air, Anya’s cheek is tingling.

* * *

In all her short life, Clarke has felt rage plenty of times. Mostly, it seems, those occasions have come in the past few weeks, but there are a few particular incidences that spring to mind: blaming Wells for her father’s execution, discovering her mother’s guilt, and learning of the mountain’s horrors, among them. This feeling, however, is an entirely new animal.

This is pure, cold-hearted fury.

All in all, Felix is lucky to still have hands to hold the illegal gun he was aiming. The only thing that kept Clarke from ripping them off on the instant a few minutes ago was the knowledge that if she did, that if she were to incite such violence particularly on the same day of Finn’s execution, there would likely be inquiries. People would wonder why she had so much power, would question her ability to lead without committing passion-driven acts of violence. She might be cast out of her position of influence, and the alliance and their people in the mountain might suffer as a result. To put that at risk was a misstep she couldn’t afford.

Clarke can, however, afford to seethe, and seethe she does. This day has been a catastrophe from the moment it began, and it has scarcely even begun yet. She has dealt with political arguments, moral arguments, and bureaucratic speeches; she has executed an old friend. And that’s only the beginning; after all of that, she has a siege to plan, politics to balance, and people to rescue. She’s barely holding herself together as it is. She hasn’t even had _breakfast._

This last straw, though, is what has finally proved to be too much. In the past year of her life, Clarke has endured an impossibly high degree of unfairness; Jake’s execution, her own imprisonment, being sent to the ground, being attacked, being kidnapped, being tortured, and being bribed, blackmailed, and had her capabilities generally doubted. Over the course of it all, the almost ludicrous unfairness has become, slowly, almost a normal facet of life. Another day, another unforeseen incident that will test her as a human being and push her to her limits. She has survived, she has fought, she has won a great deal of time, and has generally learned to live with it — or, if not with it, at least in anticipation of it.

And yet, somehow, all it takes is a glob of spit to unravel her completely.

Clarke isn’t sure what it is about this particular incident. The Ark survivors have been less than welcoming to the Trikru since the moment they met; a continuation of that is no great surprise. Perhaps Clarke hoped for a little less open hostility, but she’s also not naive; she wasn’t expecting much more than a ceasefire. She has no greater expectations than that, and yet, somehow, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Felix’s rudeness, his blatant aggression, isn’t unexpected. Her reaction to it, on the other hand, is.

Clarke can’t explain it. One minute she was walking away as swiftly as possible from the scene of Finn’s execution, and the next, she was shouldering her way back in in defense of an Alpha who she has known for a mere total of roughly eight days. If it were anyone else, she doubts she would have reacted with the same vehemence, but she was unable to help herself. The total disrespect, the threat to Anya, was too much for her to bear. Clarke has seen the warrior face much worse in the short time she’s known her, reapers and bloodletting among them, and she has overcome them all.

From each traumatic experience, Anya has bounced back with shocking casualness, but Clarke has seen them wearing on her. The Alpha puts up a good front, there’s no doubting that. To anyone else, it appears as though she has hardly faced a single adversary. Whatever else may be true, she is good at putting on a show of nonchalance.

Clarke isn’t so easily fooled.

Anya may be good at concealing her emotions, but there is no doubt that the trauma of the past week has lingered with her. She is tired, tense, hurting; she tosses and turns in the night, and her cheeks are hollower than they were when Clarke met her on the bridge. She is weary. Clarke has felt it in the rhythms of her body, snuggled close at night, has sensed it in her scent and read it behind her eyes.

Felix adding to that made something in Clarke rear up, vicious and defensive. Anya has suffered; to cause her further pain is unacceptable. Clarke wants to protect her, to provide comfort and strength and reassurance. Perhaps the Alpha impulse is to protect their Omegas, but the impulse is not one-sided. The deepest instinct an Omega has is to nurture and defend, and Clarke finds herself wanting desperately to give in. She wants to see the tension in Anya’s shoulders drop and bring a smile — so rarely granted — into her eyes. She knows Anya is lonely, and Clarke’s deepest need is to satisfy that yearning for companionship.

Anya is strong, fierce, and proud. To see her disrespected and discriminated against makes Clarke want to scream. It is _wrong._ The way that the Arkers treat people is tactless, rude, and self-serving, without a thought for what it might be like to walk in another’s shoes. She supposes it’s a product of having lived so isolated for nearly a century, but it still doesn’t make it _right._ Anya is a woman of honor, of status; an Alpha. She has done what needs to be done for her clan and done it honorably. For her to be treated unkindly for it once peace has been called is disgraceful.

That’s not even considering the fact that if they treat allied Alphas as people of so little consequence, they can hardly treat their Omegas as people at all.

Clarke is done.

She is tired of it. She is tired of being kicked around and stepped on, of having her decisions doubted when she is forced into them in the first place, of being considered second class. She is tired of being neglected and mistreated for nothing other than her designation. She’s sick of the dirty looks, sick of being ignored, sick of being talked about as though she’s an object with no thoughts or feelings of her own. A little over a month ago, she didn’t know any better. To be spat upon was merely the way.

Being on Earth has opened Clarke’s soul to some very new truths, the culminating one of which has just been made, all of a sudden, irreversibly clear. It has been building toward this for over a week, now, longer ever, but brushing Felix’s spit from Anya’s cheek somehow brought everything crashing into place.

“Octavia.” It’s fortunate for her that no one but Octavia and Lincoln have thus far shown any interest in gravitating towards the paddock fence. As curious as they are, the Arkers are still wary of the horses and didn’t draw near last night. Now the animals have been removed as Lexa and her entourage go about setting up the war tents on a nearby hill, and the absence of the animals combined with the smell of manure has sufficed to keep the others away.

A raised eyebrow is her greeting. The two of them are sitting on the top of the rail fence that was hastily erected last night. Likely, they wanted to escape the crowd before it became too rowdy. It’s an act of caution on their part; helpful to their cause though he has been, Lincoln is still a grounder, and in the stirred up air of this wretched morning, he still runs the risk of being perceived as a threat.

“What’s up, Griff?” What’s up. Two words that, after having been berated all morning, Clarke finds astonishingly refreshing. Octavia has always been all business and no bullshit, and it’s a trait for which, this morning, Clarke is deeply grateful.

She doesn’t have the energy to be grateful for long.

“I need to ask you two something. Two things, actually.” There’s no point in beating around the bush, Clarke figures, and the sooner she can get the facts established the better. Octavia only blinks.

“Go on.” Thus prompted, Clarke doesn’t waste any breath.

“I need to know if you’ll help me help the Trikru take down Mount Weather if the alliance breaks,” is her first question. It’s directed at both of them, but Lincoln is the one who answers.

“Of course,” he says immediately. “What the Maunon are doing is wrong, and they have to be stopped. Alliance or no alliance.”

“Besides, Bellamy won’t rest until the forty-seven are safe,” Octavia points out. “Whatever has to be done to get our people back, he’ll do it. You can count on that.” Clarke nods; she knows as much. Really, it’s the only thing that’s allowing her to make this decision without crippling uncertainty and remorse.

“That brings me to my second question,” she lets out in a rush. “I need you to pass this on to Bellamy, as well, if you can.” Octavia’s eyebrow quirks again.

“I will if I can,” is her honest assurance. Reassured, Clarke draws a deep breath and gathers herself to phrase her next words are carefully as possible.

“In that case, I was hoping you might be able to give me a little . . . support,” she says cautiously. Octavia makes a little bow that almost causes her to lose her balance on the fence.

“Your resident Alpha and Beta, at your service,” she says primly with a smirk. Clarke breathes out.

“That’s it, actually,” she continues. “I wouldn’t ordinarily ask for your help with this, but you both know what kind of penalties Skaikru Omegas face compared to everyone else. I’m going to do something, and if the powers that be find out and decide to punish me for it, I may need you to back me up.” Clarke tries to conclude it as casually as possible, but the unease in her voice is hard to miss. Above her, Lincoln is frowning in apparent confusion, uncertain of what is being asked.

Octavia, however, is grinning.

“You’re going to do it,” she declares with certainty. “I knew it. I _told_ you, didn’t I, Linc?” She gives him a little shoulder check that nearly knocks him off the fence rail. Clarke raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“So you’ll help me if I need it?” she presses for confirmation. Octavia waves her off with a hand covered in mud and horse manure.

“Obviously,” she confirms with an eye roll. “Now go. Get going and let them know before all the war planning hysteria begins.”

* * *

Anya is bent over the table in the war tent with Indra and Lexa, absorbed in the beginnings of strategy, when a shout and hurried footsteps announce the arrival of someone at top speed. The guards positioned directly outside let out a yell, and at Lexa’s side, Gustus stiffens, but before there’s time to do anything more than look up in alarm, there’s the slap of canvas being shoved aside, and Clarke comes pelting into the war tent.

Halting a few feet away, she leans over for only a second to catch her breath before gasping out words that, between her shuddering breaths, are only with effort able to be discerned.

“Want — help — take down the mountain,” she gasps. “Even — if — alliance — breaks.” As desperate as she is, her words are so halting and shallow with lack of air that Lexa is forced to lean closer to hear.

The guards, who by the sound of it have been scrambling over each other outside, enter the tent hot on her heels.

“Apologies, Heda — we tried to stop her — ”

 _“Em pleni.”_ The lifting of Lexa’s hand is all it takes to silence them. “Thank you for your services. You may go.” A glance at one another, and with a look towards their Commander, the guards depart. Lexa’s expression displays open curiosity as she directs her next words at Clarke. “Speak up, _skai gada._ What is it you wish to say?”

Clarke has far from caught her breath, but she seems to have slowed her heart rate enough to straighten up with a hand on a weapons rack for support.

“I want you to know that I intend to help you.” Her words come out in a rush, but they are much less breathless than before, and Anya is able to track every word. “Skaikru might break the alliance, but there are those of us who will work to free the mountain no matter what. What I want to know — that is, what I’m asking you — is whether the clans will grant me safety even if the alliance fails.” Beside Anya, Lexa is watching her, guarded.

“Choose your next words carefully, sky girl,” she warns Clarke. “I want there to be no mistaking what you mean. Declare your interests clearly, for the sake of us all.” A nod, and Clarke’s back straightens. Her eyes snap. Suddenly, she seems to have made up her mind.

“I want to defect,” she states firmly. Then hurriedly adds, “Not now. Not right away. I have a duty to my people and I intend to carry it out. But my loyalty is to you, and after we take the mountain back, I hope that you will welcome me among the clans regardless of whether Skaikru is invited into the Kongeda. So I ask you, Heda, if you will offer me sanctuary among your people as someone who is loyal to you even if others of my clan are not.”

They are all staring, every one of them except Lexa, who seems calm and strangely unsurprised, as though, perhaps, she was expecting this turn of events after all. A beat passes. Two. Three. And then —

“It is already yours,” Lexa says without a measure of hesitation. “First, you should know that your friend Okteivia has already defected. When we march on the Maunon, she will join our armies as Indra’s _seken._ I know of the ways Skaikru treats their Omegas, and it will not stand. If they join the Kongeda, they will be held to the same laws as the other twelve clans. After the mountain falls, I will extend an offer to all Skaikru Omegas to join the clans even in the event that Skaikru breaks the alliance. Rest assured, Klark kom Skaikru, that the mistreatment you have known among your people is at an end. My people will be yours, and they will treat you with the respect and humanity that you deserve.” The last part of her words falls hushed as, absorbing them, Clarke’s eyes grow bright. She opens her mouth to speak, and then closes it again, apparently lost for words.

“I — _mochof,”_ she manages to whisper eventually, and the Trigedasleng comes out choked. _“Mochof, Heda. Yu laik ai Heda, en yu gonplei ste ain.”_ Your fight is mine: the traditional words of any warrior swearing their fealty to their Commander. All of the _sekens_ learn it as their very first lesson, for it is the words that all of them hope to someday speak if they are to fight for the clan and their Kongeda. They are words that Anya once taught to Lexa.

 _“Okteivia,”_ Indra mutters almost inaudibly beside her. For once, Anya can almost detect a tone of pride. “They have been teaching each other.”

 _“Osir koma op daun bilaik slip daun kom bleirona, ba mafta op Won bilaik hef em op mou beda.”_ As if on cue, the tent flap lifts, and Octavia enters, followed at her heels by Lincoln. At the sight of her, Indra almost appears to roll her eyes, exasperated, while Lexa allows a tiny smirk. Clarke merely looks overwhelmed, and privately, Anya resolves to translate for her later. “Heda, I come to inform you that the Skaikru leaders are planning to meet here in twenty minutes; they’re reluctant, but they’re worried enough about the kids that I think you shouldn’t have too much of a problem. Not this morning, at least.” Lexa gives a brusque nod, snapping back into business mode as quickly as she dropped out of it. In a second, all emotion and ceremony is forgotten as Heda slips into strategic planning mode.

“Excellent,” she says decisively. “We will meet back here in fifteen minutes time. In the meantime, everyone please make certain you are prepared for a long day. There will be no break until past midday, so I suggest eating before we begin. Klark: there is a tent set up with supplies and bandages. As our resident healer, I trust you will ensure my general is ready for duty.” Clarke looks a little startled at being addressed in such a direct manner by the Commander, but before she can seek clarification, Lexa has already turned away and begun barking orders at someone else.

Rolling her eyes a little, Anya strides toward the entrance after Lexa and beckons for Clarke to follow.

“That was a simplified version of ‘please check if Anya’s cuts are infected,’” she explains as she passes by. “You had better come along. Yours will need tending as well.”

* * *

Being alone in the healer’s tent, it turns out, doesn’t do much to help Clarke’s frazzled nerves.

Of course, Anya’s presence in itself is distinctly soothing. Something about the Alpha’s scent infuses her with the same deep sense of calm that she had when she woke up this morning, entangled in Anya’s arms. Nevertheless, their close proximity is distracting.

It has been two days since they have been alone.

Right now, of course, they are not truly alone; people bustle back and forth outside the tent, barking orders and calling for assistance. Still, it is the first time in two days that they have had a space all to themselves in which to breathe, to exist, to merely be near one another.

Clarke finds it intoxicating.

With their limited amount of time before war strategizing begins, she’s not quite sure what to do first. They need to clean both of their wounds, re-bandage them, and eat something. Earlier, with the prospect of Finn’s execution looming before her, Clarke hardly had the stomach for breakfast. Now, though, nearly two hours later, she finds that she is ravenous.

The time for pragmatism has returned, and so, as the tent flap falls shut behind them, Clarke turns her mind to the task at hand.

It is Anya, though, who speaks first.

“You should clean your own wounds first,” she says decisively, gesturing to the table upon which a series of basic medical supplies is laid out. “I will get us food, and then you can bandage mine. Is that acceptable?” It seems a little thing to ask it, but her eyes are fastened attentively on Clarke’s as she speaks. It is not what she is asking, but the fact that she is doing so, that makes a difference. None of the Ark Alphas would ever check with an Omega to see if an order they gave was agreeable. Neither would they put an Omega first, as Anya is suggesting they do.

“That’s fine,” Clarke replies with an indifference that doesn’t match the sudden warmth within her chest. “It will only take me a minute.” Fortunately, her wounds are healing nicely. No stitches have ripped since yesterday, thanks to the fact that sleeping cuddled close to Anya kept her fairly still throughout the night. She has only to clean them and change the dressing.

She goes about the task quickly while Anya makes herself busy, bustling about at the other end of the tent. A quick glance to her shoulder injury tells her that there is no sign of infection, and a similar check-in on the arrow wound in her thigh when Anya’s back is turned proves the same. Relieved, it only takes her a minute or two to change the bandages, by which point Anya has crossed back over into her space bearing a heaping plate of food.

“There was only one, so I thought that we could share,” she explains with a slight shrug. The plate is overflowing with food of the rich, diverse grounder sort that Clarke still has yet to get used to. There are several large chunks of bread, cheeses; cuts of meat and several sliced apples. “It is nearing harvest time,” the Alpha adds, seeing the way that Clarke’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of it. “Food is plentiful.”

“I can see that,” Clarke murmurs. The sight is a little overwhelming; food was never so good nor so plentiful on the Ark. She’s not sure she’ll ever get used to the abundance. “All right, well . . . I’ll need to check your wounds for infection,” she says after a moment of staring. Shaking herself, she redirects her attention as much as possible to the Alpha in front of her. “You should probably sit down, and my hands are going to be full, so I’m not sure how we should . . .” she trails off, gesturing to the plate of food and pile of bandages between them. Anya offers her another shrug in response.

“I will feed you, then,” she says easily. Setting the plate down on the nearby table, she steps back far enough to pull the shirt from her body, leaving her top half exposed down to the bindings on her chest. Her skin gleams in the new daylight that glows through the canvas walls, and Clarke’s protests about the food die in her throat.

“I — okay,” she squeaks out, and is embarrassed to find that her voice has shot up about an octave. Hastily, she clears her throat. “That’s — yeah, that works.” Her consternation is apparently obvious, for Anya shoots her a look that’s almost a smirk at the sound of the croak in her voice.

“Excellent,” she decides. A moment later, she has taken her seat, and Clarke finds herself kneeling before her.

It’s not an unpleasant position to be in, Clarke thinks to herself as she wields the disinfectant. Sure, she could do without the bandages, but otherwise, being on her knees in front of Anya isn’t exactly the worst place she can imagine being. Certainly, she has been many places a lot less voluntarily. However stereotypical it may be, she finds that something about the position feels right.

She is doing nothing to indicate subservience, and Anya in kind is displaying no dominance whatsoever, but a distinct echo of the situation’s significance remains regardless. Here they are, Alpha and Omega, the latter on her knees to tend to the former’s injuries, the former feeding the latter from her own hand.

Clarke has done a lot of difficult things in the past week, but one of the most difficult, she finds, is to not respond to the feeling of Anya pressing food to her lips by taking the Alpha’s fingertips into her mouth.

It hits Clarke suddenly, the heat that pangs in her belly at the thought of what she could do from this position. What she _would_ do, were time and circumstances removed. The temptation is already there, strong enough that has she has to make a concerted effort to not give in. How easy it would be, how gratifying, to open her mouth a little more and wrap her lips around those strong and giving hands. Then, to sink a little further, and let her lips find warmer skin; a knee, the inside of a thigh, and then closer . . .

The thought makes her very blood grow hot.

She wonders what it would be like, if she did. If she were to give in to the need now trembling in her belly and her chest and further down. Those strong hands would cradle her head, no doubt, fingers twisting into her hair to pull her close. She wonders what that golden skin would taste like, what kind of sounds she could elicit; what Anya’s eyes would look like dazed with pleasure, burning into Clarke’s as she gives her Alpha the attention she deserves . . .

Her Alpha.

_Fuck._

The realization of what her thoughts mean dawns on Clarke with an abruptness that feels as though she’s been dunked in a bucket of ice water. She jolts back with a start, springing to her feet as soon as she tucks the last corner of the bandage and fastens it securely with a clip.

“All done!” She doesn’t mean for the words to come out sounding so flustered, as though she’s a bird that’s been startled from its perch. They’re high-pitched and squeaky, and the sound makes Clarke wince a little. She’s an _adult,_ for goodness sakes, one who is perfectly capable of being composed when the situation calls for it.

That’s a lie, and she knows it, and by the look that Anya is giving her, Anya knows it, too.

Seeing the look in Anya’s eyes grow into something resembling comprehension, Clarke steps back quickly and casts her eyes around for something else to focus on. She’s not sure she can handle the look that Anya is giving her, like she knows exactly what scenario was just playing out in Clarke’s mind. Quickly, she tries to side-step around the chair, making for the exit, but the sudden grasp of slim fingers around her wrist halts her before she is able to pass.

“Clarke.” Anya’s voice is warm and smooth in a way that makes heat drop into Clarke’s stomach. Her warm fingers wrapped around Clarke’s wrist are strong, though their grasp is gentle. Anya’s thumb is settled just along her pulse point, and Clarke is nervous at the notion that surely the Alpha can feel the way that her heart rate has increased. Raising her gaze reluctantly, she finds that the look in the Alpha’s eyes is just as she dreaded; open, kind, and deeply magnetic.

“Clarke,” Anya repeats in a voice even lower than before, and Clarke finds that her mouth has opened involuntarily. It feels like something is stuck in her throat, as though there are words there that her body knows but that her mind is not quite ready to release. Her eyes drop down to where their hands meet, and flutter back to Anya’s. A second later, the Alpha’s gaze follows. A beat, and then she blinks, as if suddenly remembering where she is. Another moment, and she lets her hand fall.

“It is nearly time; we should be going.” Clarke’s words sound strangled even to her own ears. The complete and utter gravity that existed between them a moment ago has dissipated enough that she finds that she can move. All the same, there is a weight in the air that seems to press into every corner of her body. It leaves hardly anything in her mind but _instinct,_ the desire to be closer, warmer, deeper. The only coherent thought left is that somehow, she has to get out of this tent before either of them do something that it is not quite yet the moment for.

Letting her fingertips stir the air between their hands, Clarke steps fully around the chair and makes for the tent entrance. She has nearly made it when Anya’s voice rises from behind her with the quietness of someone afraid of speaking and yet simultaneously too nervous to remain silent.

“Why did you protect me?”

Clarke’s feet stop of their own accord several paces from the tent flap. In the back of her throat, she swallows hard. Turns. Anya is watching her with eyes made of morning sunlight. Intense.

“I . . .” Clarke fumbles, halts. Struggles to compose herself into words that are not quite true, yet not untrue all the same. “In Tondisi, I was worried about the alliance; I needed to keep my ally alive,” is what she settles on after a tight pause. Contented with the shallow truth, though it’s clear she senses that there’s more, Anya nods briskly and turning back in her chair, begins to reach for her shirt so that she may dress to leave.

She has nearly touched it when Clarke’s voice flies from her throat on impulse.

“Wait.” Slowly, she turns back, and Clarke is fidgeting, staring at the ground. After a moment, she looks up, and her eyes are bright and distant. “It wasn’t because I was looking out for my own interests, or the alliance.” She swallows the confession. “I . . . I don’t know why I protected you. Just that I needed to.” Anya stares at her with an intensity that threatens to swallow her whole.

“And today?” The question conjures the click of a safety, the press of Clarke’s back to Anya’s chest. Protecting. Defending. She swallows again.

“Perhaps I am tired of seeing blood spilled.” A half-confession, masked by another shallow truth. Anya’s gaze doesn’t flicker.

“We are going to war, Klark,” she points out softly. “Blood will be spilled, and in time you will learn to accept that as our way of life.” In the light of the brightening tent, Clarke’s eyes hold the same intensity.

“Perhaps I will learn to accept blood being spilled,” she says at last. “But that blood will not be yours.”

And with that, she lifts the tent flap and steps out, leaving Anya still seated at the low wooden table, the new sunlight bright within her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Osir koma op daun bilaik slip daun kom bleirona, ba mafta op Won bilaik hef em op mou beda: We honor those who fall by the sword, but follow the One who wields it best.
> 
> There's this gif of Clarke holding a gun that for some reason gives me all the Omega feels, in case you're interested: https://www.google.com/search?q=clarke+griffin+gun+gif&client=firefox-b-1-d&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiW_7XkgsLjAhWKM-wKHYGQCVAQ_AUIESgB#imgrc=_jgXB4Y_TUwjTM:


	4. Yellow Brick Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone else realizes what’s going on between Clarke and Anya. Clarke and Anya finally stop being oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 30,000 words. I have a conscious memory of writing maybe four of them.

Contrary to every reasonable assumption, the newly forged peace treaty accomplishes precisely what it is supposed to accomplish.    
  
There is any amount of tension to work through; that part doesn’t change.  Likely it won’t, either, which by this point is a truth to which Clarke has resigned herself.  However, the calling of a true ceasefire feels like a boulder being lifted off her chest.  Clarke isn’t remotely under the impression that her work as a leader is done, but finally, for the time being, existence itself provides no immediate threat.  There is no one draining her blood, no falling space station, no arrow pointed at her head.  In a matter of days, they will lead a charge into a mountain filled with their enemies, but for now, if only for a minute, there are no life-altering decisions to be made.  
  
With the calling of the peace treaty, the reins have been handed over to Lexa.  At last, Clarke can relax.  Now that the war they are about to wage is under the command of someone with more experience, worrying about the outcome is futile.  Of course she is pained at the thought of the fate their friends might be facing within Mount Weather, but for now, while armies are being assembled, there is nothing more that Clarke can do.  There is no point being frantic in the meantime.  In Lexa’s astute words, it takes as long as it takes.  For the first time since the drop, Clarke isn’t on high alert for a potential cause of death.    
  
It turns out that the two clans do, in fact, have much to learn from one another.    
  
The next few days are a blur of strategy-oriented meetings in the war tents constructed upon the hill.  At first, the atmosphere is tense with the reminder of the many conflicts they have shared in the past several weeks.  The exchanges are less than friendly, and everyone interacts with a cold stiffness that makes even Lexa seem welcoming.  Clarke spends the initial gatherings on edge, her entire body tensed and poised to intervene should the standoffish, occasionally nasty looks the leaders shoot one another turn more physically violent.  However, with Kane and Lexa — at least nominally — at the head of operations, there are no more outbursts.  
  
Finn’s death, oddly enough, seems to have wrought an unprecedented degree of peace.  
  
It makes sense, if Clarke thinks about it.  Finn’s execution was the final act that sealed the alliance between the clans and laid, at least temporarily, a peace treaty.  The Trikru lost a mortal enemy, and the Ark survivors, while upset at the death of one of their own, have had a jeopardizing citizen removed.  From what she’s heard from Bellamy, Finn was causing some unrest among the inhabitants of Camp Jaha even before he managed to shoot up a Trikru village.    
  
Like it or not, the fact of his execution has solidified something between them.  
  
It becomes even more obvious, once everyone is behaving with enough civility to allow for actual plans to be laid, that there may be more benefit in this alliance than its more recalcitrant members could have anticipated.    
  
The immediate plans for the attack on the mountain have been laid.  The first point upon which everyone is actually in agreement is that to take down the mountain will be impossible without inside help.  Bellamy, with the aid of Lincoln, will approach as close to Mount Weather as possible while remaining away from the Reapers, at which point he will allow himself to be captured by the Mountain Men under the pretense of wanting to join his friends.  At that point, he will relay information back to the armies outside.    
  
How exactly he will do so, it turns out, is their first opportunity for shared intel.    
  
For all the grounders’ prowess in battle, and for all their complexities of culture, Clarke finds it almost amusing that none of them can comprehend the workings of a radio.    
  
“But even if your Bellomi is _inside_ the mountain when he uses the talk boxes, those of us _outside_ will hear it?” Anya repeats disbelievingly for about the third time when Sinclair attempts to explain the technology.  Around her, Lexa, Indra, Gustus, and guards Callum and Jean look equally bewildered.  At the assurance that yes, that is precisely what a radio is used for, Lexa shakes her head.    
  
“And you say that the Maunon will have such methods of communication?” she inquires.  Sinclair, who was made a part of the official invasion task force almost immediately upon the initiation of battle plans, nods gravely.  
  
“It is certain that they will,” he confirms, “which means that our efforts will need to be twofold: we will need to jam their signal so that they cannot eavesdrop on our transmissions, and we will also need to un-jam it so that we can talk to Bellamy.  Besides that, Bellamy will need to acquire a radio through the comms room that Clarke labeled on her map.”  At that, he offers an approving nod to Clarke, who smiles slightly in return.  Thanks to the detailed map of Mount Weather she spent hours drawing with Maya’s help, they have almost complete knowledge of every corner of the mountain’s stronghold.  She’s eternally grateful that she had the foresight to make it; if she hadn’t, she doesn’t know where they would be.    
  
“But how will you — jam — this signal without being in the mountain yourselves?” Lexa persists.  She’s been like this since they began, grilling Skaikru on every aspect of the new technology that they offer up in aid as though intent upon memorizing every facet of its function.  Clarke understands.  The Trikru, while very much on their own turf, are reliant on the functionality of this technology in order to be successful in  the war they wish to wage.  To take their former enemies at their word would be downright foolish.  It’s fortunate that they are working with Sinclair, who as a calm and earnest Beta will be honest and eagerly attentive to detail.    
  
“One of our engineers will be able to manage it easily, barring unforeseen circumstances,” is his prompt reply.  “Raven is the most promising mechanic I have ever trained; she knows what she’s doing.”  Clarke’s stomach turns a little at the mention of Raven; she hasn’t seen her friend since the night she accidentally overheard her conversation with Finn in the holding cell.  She’s not sure she wants to, either.  According to Octavia’s reports, Raven has spoken to no one but Abby and Sinclair since the execution.  Clarke wants to see her, wants to apologize, but she’s pretty sure she’d rather wait until her initial bloodlust has passed.    
  
Feelings aside, now isn’t the time to begin feuds anew.  They’ve begun planning their siege on Mount Weather already, but even yesterday isn’t soon enough.  A total of nine days has passed since Clarke and Anya’s escape from the mountain; nine days since their discovery of the terrible truth of what the Mountain Men are doing.   
  
Already, for some, they’re nine days too late.    
  
The rest of the plan is straightforward: after Bellamy has relayed the necessary information to the forty-seven prisoners and informed the armies of any remaining complications, there remain only three steps to be figured out.  First, the Mountain Men must be distracted by an assault from the outside while the prisoners, grounder and Skaikru alike, are led to safety.  Second, the armies must have a way of infiltrating the mountain.    
  
Third, they will have to find a way of ensuring that no one within Mount Weather exploits anyone on the outside ever again.    
  
In theory, the plan sounds almost laughably simple, but Clarke knows that the reality will prove to be much more complicated, and above all else, a good degree bloodier.    
  
Sorting out the logistics of even this first step has taken two full days.  They have spent all of their waking hours holed up in the war tent with an atrociously insubstantial amount of sleep, the result of which is that Lincoln and Bellamy will leave for the mountain in an hour.  It’s an eight-hour walk to Mount Weather without concern for the Reapers, which they will be taking great care to avoid, skirting wide around the mountain’s perimeter.  Likely, they will arrive at the outskirts of the mountain’s territory shortly after dusk, and will spend the night in the trees on the perimeter.  The next morning, Bellamy will allow himself to be captured.  Lincoln will wait until he is safely inside to proceed with immense caution to the Reaper tunnels.  There, he will follow the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the mountain to the drop site beneath the garbage shoot where the bodies are dumped from the harvest chamber.  Bellamy, once inside the mountain, will sneak away into the harvest chamber and drop a note into the trash chute for Lincoln to find to let him know that all is well.    
  
Only then will Lincoln make his way back to Camp Jaha, carefully so as to avoid detection by the Reapers and the Mountain Men.  His return will let the tech crew know that it is safe to begin jamming the radio signals so that inside the mountain, Bellamy can make contact.  The rest of the war council, meanwhile, will make its way to Tondisi, where Lexa has called for a meeting of the Kongeda ambassadors.  Together, they will organize an army and a battle strategy to distract the Mountain Men from the prisoners’ escape and infiltrate the mountain itself.     
  
There are so many things that might go wrong that it’s easier to list the few that might not.    
  
Clarke can’t think about that, can’t consider the idea that they might fail, losing hundreds of innocent people in the process.  To fail isn’t what they have set out to do.  As Lexa stated upon the very first convening of the war council, it is not a question of whether they will win, but of how.  To lose is not an option, the only logical response to which, therefore, is that they will not lose.  At any rate, the only thing they can do now in the meanwhile is to wait for Bellamy to enter the mountain and make contact.  
  
At the very least, it will mean two or three days of little to do but twiddle their thumbs while they wait.  They’re going to have time to kill, and nothing to do during it but worry.  Clarke, however, has determined to stay busy and prepared.  There’s no way that she’ll be up to any kind of warrior standard in less than a week’s time, but she can learn enough, she thinks, to give herself a fighting chance if things happen to go south.  She hasn’t had the chance yet, but when she does, she plans on asking Anya to show her how to fight.    
  
They have plenty of time.  It will be three days at least before Lincoln returns and gives the signal for their departure for Tondisi.  Lexa has announced her intention to consider a battle plan in the interim, but has informed the rest of them that there is little they can contribute until a meeting with the Kongeda decides their numbers.  That leaves Clarke with three days, three marvelous, uninterrupted days of peace before the real war begins.  It will be the first time since before the drop that she can simply _breathe_ without fear of starvation or capture or war.    
  
She intends to spend it, therefore, in the company of those who will not give her cause for fear.    
  
Despite her anxiety over Mount Weather, Clarke finds that she can’t fight down a spark of anticipation at the thought of the new life she might forge afterward.  She hasn’t gone so far as to consider where and with whom she’ll live, or what she’ll be doing, but the mere thought of an existence beyond the confines of the Ark is thrilling on its own.  After all, she’s an adult now — something that a month ago, she never thought she’d live to be.  Once their friends are safe, she can, conceivably, do whatever she wants.  
  
She’s not going to consider it too seriously yet, for fear of what might happen if things in the mountain go wrong, but . . . well, it’s an intriguing thought.  That’s all.  
  
They wish the messengers well from the outskirts of Camp Jaha.  The two young men are clad in light travel gear and Skaikru jackets.  Lincoln looks a little uncomfortable in the Ark clothing, but it’s a necessary precaution if they get caught; the Mountain Men will be much less likely to shoot him on sight if he’s wearing Skaikru gear.  Other than the slightly awkward set of his shoulders, however, he shows no other sign of trepidation at the prospect of venturing back into the territory in which he was captured by the Reapers.    
  
Bellamy, too, is displaying no nervousness.  If anything, there’s a gleam in his eyes that’s almost excited.  Clarke understands it; the idea of acting, of physically doing something that will push them closer to rescuing their friends, is compelling.  It’s why, she thinks privately, Bellamy is more suited to leadership than she is.  This is what he’s like no matter the task; always willing, always raring to go.  She would rather restrain herself from aggression in all cases except when necessary to protect those that she loves, but Bellamy thrives on action.  If anyone can be counted upon to do everything possible to bring their friends home, it’s Bellamy.    
  
The farewell is a swift one.  They’re leaving in early morning so as to make good time getting to Mount Weather and setting up camp for the night.  It may take them a while to scout out a safe place to sleep, so they want to reach the mountain before nightfall.  Only part of the War Council contingent is awake to send them off; Clarke, Anya, Indra, Octavia, and Kane.  Lexa, Clarke knows, is awake, but likely in her tent alone drawing up battle plans, too busy to see to this part of the operation.    
  
Saying goodbye to Bellamy only a couple days after finding him again is harder than Clarke has been anticipating.  Back in Mount Weather, when escape seemed impossible, she would have almost been convinced that she would never see him again if she allowed herself the energy to consider it.  She didn’t, of course, too focused on keeping everyone alive and in one peace, but the thought is there all the same as she studies him in the newly breaking sunlight.  The time since the battle against the grounders has wrought a change in him; already, concern over the fate of his people has lined his face.  It serves to make him look a little older, a little less harsh, than before.    
  
When Clarke pulls him into a hug, he reciprocates the embrace tightly.  The force of it nearly lifts her off her feet.   
  
_“Be careful.”_   Though she is worried about both of them, the whisper is for him alone.  Bellamy’s arms tighten around her in response.  The feeling makes her tear up.  She doesn’t know when exactly it was, but somewhere between wanting to kill each other and burning three-hundred people alive to protect their people, Bellamy has become one of her closest friends.  Now they’re leading their former enemies with them into battle to rescue their people, _their people;_ not the adults of the Skaikru, but the forty-seven rough-and-tumble kids that the two of them have fought tooth and nail together to protect since the moment they fell to Earth.  It’s an odd feeling, but something about them feels like a messy, highly unorthodox, tight-knit little oddball family.    
  
Somewhere along the line, Bellamy has become one of the most important people Clarke knows, and she finds suddenly that she can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him.  
  
“You too.”  His words are tight and a little choked as he mumbles them into her hair, and she knows by the way his hands tighten around his shoulders that the constricted feeling in her chest isn’t hers alone.  “You and O take care of each other, you hear me?”  Wordlessly, she nods, feeling the brush of his jacket against her chin.  He only holds on for another moment before they let their arms fall to their sides, but Clarke can feel the anxious weight of their goodbye hanging on her chest like a rock.  
  
When she steps back, she barely registers Anya watching her with a stony look in her eyes.  
  
“Be good,” Bellamy tells Octavia.  The sentiment is greeted with a cuff on the back of the head.  “I’m serious,” he grumbles.    
  
“I know you are.”  Octavia’s voice carries undisguised fondness.  “Try to come back to me in one piece, all right?  You’re the only big brother I have.”  Bellamy’s eyes go soft at that, which earns him a punch in the shoulder and a warning against getting to be too sentimental.    
  
It’s quick after that, just Octavia stepping up for a hug and kiss on the cheek for her brother, a kiss on the lips for her mate, and Kane shaking both men’s hands, before they’re off.  The little group watches them depart, arms folded against the morning chill, until they’re vanishing out of sight beyond the trees.    
  
At that point, the rest of them scatter off to make themselves useful.  Indra stalks off in the direction of the war tent, Kane meanders back into the compound, and Anya is gone before any of them can blink.  Clarke lingers, watching the place where Bellamy and Lincoln disappear into the forest.  She has a vague idea of mourning them for a minute or two in peaceful silence, but that notion is discarded when Octavia yawns and loudly cracks her neck.  She’s been irate all morning, have been vehemently denied her request to travel with her brother and mate “in case some Maunon need the shit kicked out of them.”  Indra shut her down in an instant, stating bluntly that even though she made a good impression with her display in the mud, she’s still a _goufa_ and a _branwada_ and would get killed before she could even draw her sword.  Thus resigned, Octavia has set herself the task of making herself as much of a nuisance as possible while waiting for her training.  Clarke can’t be certain, but she swears she heard Kane mutter something about _cruisin’ for a bruisin’_ when Octavia purposefully spilled oatmeal all over Callum at breakfast.   
  
“Let’s go somewhere,” Octavia declares the minute Bellamy and Lincoln are out of sight.  “I need to distract myself or I’ll hit something, so I’m open to suggestions.”  Questioningly, Clarke indicates herself.  
  
“Me?”  Octavia rolls her eyes.  
  
“Yes, you, Griffin.  Come with me.”  A little bemused, but not unwilling, Clarke falls into step behind her, following the younger girl into the edge of the forest and out of sight of the gates of the encampment.  Once they’re well out of earshot, Octavia spins around on her heels.  Clarke, walking close behind her, nearly falls flat on her face.  “Actually, I’ve been wanting to have a word with you,” Octavia says flatly when she regains her balance.  “Are you stupid, or what?”  Highly affronted and taken aback, Clarke sputters.    
  
“I’m not — no!  Why?” she protests.  Octavia fixes her with a look that tells her plainly that she thinks she’s being extraordinarily dim.    
  
“You’re not being very fair.”

_“What?”_  
  
“Are you _trying_ to make Anya combust, or are you just genuinely that oblivious?” Octavia demands.  Clarke reels at the accusation.  
  
“I — no, I’m not — she isn’t — _what do you mean I’m being oblivious?”_ she splutters, bewildered.  Octavia stares at her in blank astonishment.    
  
“Jesus Christ, you _are,_ you don’t even _realize_ — ”  
  
“Why on Earth would I be trying to make Anya combust — ”  
  
“Goddamn doe-eyed Omegas — ”  
  
“I’m not _doe-eyed,_ how dare you suggest — ”  
  
“All right, blind, then.”  The correction only irritates Clarke, who begins to puff up indignantly before Octavia cuts her off.  “Christ on an asteroid, Griff, you’re dumber than a box of rocks,” Octavia informs her.  “You really don’t see what you’re doing to her, do you?”  Clarke stares.  Octavia’s fastening her with the kind of expression that means this is going to be a hard conversation to get out of without admitting to something.  She knows; she’s seen it work on Bellamy.  Briefly, she entertains the thought of playing dumb, but discards it knowing that to do so will ultimately make things even worse.    
  
“What am I doing to her?” Clarke settles on instead, feeling distinctly like the answer isn’t one she’s prepared to hear.  She has a fair idea that she knows where this is going, and the thought isn’t making her feel any better about it.  Octavia’s glance is pointed.  
  
“You’re seriously telling me that you didn’t notice the way Anya reacted when you hugged Bell earlier?” she says incredulously.  At Clarke’s blank look, she lets out a disbelieving huff.  “Oh my god, Clarke.”  
  
 _“What?”_ By this point, Clarke is beginning to get irritated.  Octavia’s eyes are wide and earnest.  
  
“You didn’t see how jealous Anya was?”  The words leave Clarke a little taken aback.  Seeing her hesitate, Octavia pushes further.  “Griffin, you should’ve seen her face when you hugged Bellamy.  She looked like someone force-fed her those awful mushrooms Jasper picked back at the drop ship.  It would’ve been funny if she didn’t look so damn sad.”  That, at last, is what breaks through Clarke’s annoyance and bewilderment.  All her protests die in her throat as she stares at Octavia.  Suddenly, there seems to be an unpleasant taste in her mouth.  
  
“Anya looked sad?” she repeats hesitantly.  The idea makes her feel uncomfortable in a way that calls for action, as though she needs to go find Anya, right now, and make certain that she’s all right.  Octavia looks relieved that she’s finally caught on.  
  
“Like she would’ve cried if she didn’t have a stick up her ass,” she confirms, and Clarke frowns at the comment.  
  
“She doesn’t have a stick up her — ”  
  
“It doesn’t _matter.”_   Octavia waves her off impatiently.  “Look, Griff, if you’re not into her, that’s your cup of tea, but don’t leave the poor woman hanging like this.  I thought you cared about her, hell, we all thought you did, but if you don’t, for Christ’s sake don’t lead her on.  All this sleeping by her and fussing over her and defending her and shit — cut it out if you don’t want anything more out of it.  You _know_ that she’s an Alpha; you know what kind of signals you’re sending by treating her like that, so make a choice before you break her heart.  God knows she probably has one in there somewhere.”    
  
By the time she’s finished her tirade, Clarke is gaping at her.  She can’t seem to control the way her mouth has fallen open; she knows she probably looks like an idiot, but she’s having trouble processing everything that Octavia just said.    
  
It’s been one thing to travel with Anya, to work with her to create an alliance and uphold it, and to notice along the way that her own instincts are stirring.  It’s been one thing to see the little looks Anya sends her, to feel her respond to her; to be tentatively doted upon like an intended mate.  It’s been one thing to acknowledge that, with the alliance and war out of the way, there might be something more there to consider once the world has given way to peace.  
  
It’s entirely another to hear it out of Octavia’s mouth in such frank terms.    
  
Octavia saying all of this means that someone besides them has noticed, has clued in to the fact that there is something building between the two of them.  Octavia noticing that something is going on means that something actually _is_ going on.  It’s not Clarke’s imagination — her own feelings, or the possibility that they might be reciprocated.  It makes things a hell of a lot more complicated.    
  
Clarke braces herself to deny it, to fight back against Octavia’s painful truths with an aloof barb or two of her own, but somewhere between her lungs and her mouth her protests about wars and alliances and enemies die in her throat, and what comes out instead is the admission that she’s been avoiding since the moment she beat Anya in a fight for her life in the mud.    
  
“I do care about her.”    
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Though internally she despairs, Clarke doesn’t flinch at her own words the way she instinctively feels she should.  Maybe it’s the fact that she’s been denying this for so long; maybe it’s that she’s fed up of ignoring the side of her she wants so desperately to open up.  Maybe it’s because the draw she feels to Anya — because there _is_ a draw, dammit, whatever she might like to pretend — is more powerful than anything she’s ever known.  Maybe it’s because she hasn’t had anyone to confide in since Jake Griffin died and Octavia is _here,_ earnest and honest and stubborn, and Clarke just can’t fight it anymore.    
  
Whatever the reason may be, the moment the words are out of her mouth, Clarke feels her body grow light with relief.  After over a week of fighting a feeling that has gone from unimportant to overwhelming so quickly, to finally acknowledge it aloud feels like the weightlessness she felt when they finally made it out of the mountain.    
  
Octavia, of course, being Octavia, doesn’t allow her the peace to bask in it.    
  
“Then for goodness sake, Griffin, stop yanking the poor girl around,” she chastises emphatically.  “If you like the girl, do something about it already.”  Clarke fidgets.    
  
“That’s not — O, we have a war to fight,” she begins to protest, but at the sight of Octavia’s face, cuts herself off.    
  
“So you’re holding yourself back because we might not live to see next week?” she says in disbelief.  When Clarke nods, she heaves out an exhale of astonishment.  “Damn, Griffin, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one!  Yeah, we could all die in three days.  We could also die _tomorrow._ A meteor could hit the earth in five minutes and that would be the end of that.  Shit can happen any time, but do you see any of the rest of us moping around about it?  If you stop yourself from doing things because of what might happen to prevent it, you’ll never enjoy a single goddamn moment.  You’re on _Earth,_ for fuck’s sake.  _Live_ a little.”  She’s right; of course she’s right, but Clarke can’t let her have this.  Not quite yet.  She begins to speak, but Octavia holds up her hand directly in front of her face.   
  
“No, you know what — no, tell me this,” Octavia decides vehemently.  A little amused, Clarke acquiesces and listens.  “Tell me this.  Forget about Anya, forget about Mount Weather.  Forget anybody was ever at war, and pretend for just a minute that we showed up to a totally peaceful planet where there was no Mount Weather and everybody welcomed us with open arms.  What kind of life would you make for yourself?  What would you _want?”_    
  
Clarke hesitates.  She hasn’t thought about what she wants to be or do in over a year, not since her father got floated and she got arrested for treason.  She hasn’t considered what she wants out of life, because up until about a month ago, she was expecting to die on her eighteenth birthday.  Thirteen months in prison was a long time to resign herself to the fact that not everyone’s lives last the same.  Some people, like Wells, would probably live to a ripe old age and accomplish great things, while others, like Clarke, would be cut short; eighteen years filled by school and chess games.    
  
How quickly things can change.    
  
Octavia’s right, though.  Life on Earth is filled with possibilities Clarke never even dreamed of having.  What’s the point of having made it to the ground if she isn’t going to embrace them?    
  
“Don’t answer right now,” Octavia adds.  She must be sensing how overwhelmed Clarke is at the realization of what she hasn’t been considering, because she pulls back a little, her tone marginally less antagonizing.  “I just want you to think about it.  And do think about it, because when we win this war — and we _will_ win it — you’re going to have a lot of options.  You might want to think about where you want to live with your new clan.”  Clarke jolts a little with that reminder.  She knows, of course, logically, that asking for sanctuary with the Trikru means that she will become one of them, but she hasn’t considered what that will mean after the war.    
  
“I’m not sure how to do that,” she says quietly.  Octavia sends her a knowing glance.    
  
“That’s fine,” she says carefully.  “Just remember that there are people to consider, too.  You’ve made yourself a hell of a family down here, and a lot of us are going to want to stick around.  You can take your time figuring things out, but try not to be stranger in the meantime, would you?  Anya would move mountains for you — shit, that’s literally what she’s going to do.  At least give her, I don’t know, a pat on the back?”  She quirks her eyebrow suggestively at that last comment, and the way it’s delivered is so provoking that Clarke can’t help but laugh.  The amusement clears the air of any lingering tension, and once she’s done chuckling over it, she straightens up with newfound anticipation at the thought of the freedom the next few days will bring.  
  
“Let’s go somewhere,” she echoes Octavia’s earlier words determinedly.  “I want to do something fun, but it’s been so long I don’t even know how to think of something.”  Octavia grins impishly as they resume their hike.  
  
“We’re teenage delinquents alone in the woods on a new planet,” she says with a mischievous look coming into her eye.  “I’m sure we can find _something_ to entertain us.”

* * *

 

Lexa has seen many things in her relatively short life, but few are as adorably pathetic as seeing Anya pining over the little skai Omega.    
  
For pining Anya is, reluctant though she may be to admit it.  It is wildly apparent that she would like to keep up the facade of remaining as stoic and unmovable as possible no matter the affections that may come her way.  Such tactics might work on Gustus and Indra, but Lexa isn’t so easily fooled.  Pretending to be emotionless is _her_ prerogative; she knows a failing attempt when she sees it.  She also knows _Anya;_ has known her for the last fifteen years of her life.  Anya practically raised her; Lexa knows that she is one of the few people to whom Anya has ever fully opened up.    
  
Certainly, when she’s not at war, Anya is open and welcoming in a way that Lexa has never had the liberty to be.  The stoic facade is one she keeps up in times of war.  She’s usually pretty good at it, too, but right now her control is slipping.  Frantic attempts at nonchalance can’t fool Lexa, nor can that very particular frown Anya makes when she cares about something and doesn’t want anyone to know it.  Lexa taught her that look, _fos_ and _seken_ be damned.    
  
It’s sweet to see Anya falling to pieces over this _skai_ girl, fumbling with her hands and tripping over her words as she struggles to contain her growing affection.  Anya, who has fought in countless battles and buried countless dead and still kept her soul untarnished by bitterness.  Lexa has watched over the past few days as grouchiness transformers to earnestness; eager to please and provide.  The longing in her eyes is obvious and almost pitiful to behold.  She accepts each measure of affection from Clarke like a precious gift, and it’s almost endearing to see the way her eyes light up at each kind word, each touch, each show of trust.  
  
She knows that Anya’s struggling, and she understands, she really does.  The empty place that Costia left in her heart still echoes, and try as she might, Lexa can’t quite seem to silence the beating of her heart into what feels like an impenetrable void between her ribs.  The space between loving Costia and losing her is endless, and nothing about the passage of time can soothe that ache.    
  
She knows that for Anya it’s much the same.  The loss of their mates came for similar reasons, though several years apart.  Anya has had more time to grieve and adjust, but though the mating mark has faded, the pain surely has not.  It’s marginally made up for in the fact that Lexa knows that Anya’s first mate wasn’t her truest; certainly, there was love there, but it was a bond precipitated more by familiarity and comfort, a product of childhood friendship rather than a soul-deep yearning.  Having had the latter, Lexa knows the difference.    
  
The prospect of opening her heart again is what makes Lexa so certain of Anya’s feelings towards the young skai Omega.  Lexa cannot fathom what it would be to love again.  For her, at least, she knows it isn’t possible, but even if it were, it would take an extraordinary act of bravery to allow herself to feel it.  She loved Costia with every facet of her soul; every breath and every beat of her heart.  It wasn’t a choice so much as a surrender.  To love in such a way is beyond terrifying, and Lexa can’t imagine what would become of her if such a feeling were to overtake her again.  
  
She understands Anya’s reluctance to acknowledge it; it is one thing to consider the possibility, to feel it overtaking everything else.  It is quite another to admit it, for once one admits to love, one admits to the fear of loss, and that fear in Anya, Lexa knows, is deep.  Anya is proud and strong and so deeply afraid, both of her own loneliness and of what she would be without it.  The fact that her attempt at stoicism is cracking means that Clarke has struck a chord.  It’s the same strings that Costia’s plucked in Lexa, the ones that uplifted her and ultimately destroyed her.  Once Anya surrenders, she knows, there is no going back.    
  
As horrible as Lexa’s lesson was, she learned it well.  It is the lesson that led her to extend an olive branch to the woman who took her lover’s life even when her bedsheets were still stained red.  There was never a day so earth-shattering as the day Lexa lost Costia, but she finds that in the oddest, most distant way, it hardly even matters.  For as much as losing Costia filled her heart, loving her filled it that much more.    
  
Lexa still awakens screaming in the night from the grief she endured that awful dawn, but she would find Costia’s head in her bed all over again, every morning until the end of time, for the chance to love her for another day. 

* * *

 

The sun filtering through the atmosphere and into the open doors of the Ark still looks out-of-place, and in its light, they feel older than before.  
  
Neither of them have stirred since Marcus returned from seeing the Blake boy and the young grounder off.  Abby hasn’t moved from her position in the uncomfortable leather seat since the early hours of the night.  Bellamy and Lincoln departed as the sun rose, and the hours since then have been spent in silence, the air too heavy and weary for either of them to make a sound.  All of their hopes for the outcome of this war lie on the shoulders of the two young men who have walked into the forest in the morning light, and not for the first time, they are wondering how it came to be that the fate of their people lies in the hands of children.  
  
“You know that I didn’t want to do it.”  After hours of silence, it is Marcus who rouses himself to speech.  As it is, the words are wearier than they are, and seem to lie dusty in the air that between the metal walls has grown hot with the rising of the sun.  “To kill the Collins boy.”    
  
When Abby rolls her neck around to gaze at him, her tendons pinch with the strain.  For a moment, they merely watch each other, content to let the understanding be reached without words.  
  
“You know it had to be done,” is her quiet reply.    
  
“You didn’t seem to know that three nights ago.”    
  
“I knew.”  In their exhaustion, neither of them have the energy to be irritated or impatient.  “I was only hoping that it wasn’t true.”  There is a long pause, in which Abby closes her eyes, before she speaks again.  “I just don’t want to believe that after everything we’ve done to get here, all the horrible things we’ve done . . . it’s only to keep proving that we don’t deserve it.”    
  
“We do.”  
  
“We don’t,” she contradicts gently.  Marcus leans forward to clasp his hands together in his lap, his first movement in over an hour.    
  
“Maybe it isn’t about deserving it,” he reasons softly.  “Maybe it isn’t about what we deserve, but what we will do for others.”  When she smiles at him, the expression is shallow.  
  
“That sounds like a politician trying to convince himself that what he’s doing is right.”    
  
“Maybe what’s right isn’t what we’ve always thought it was.”  Abby stirs a little, but not in response to his words; a fly has landed on the back of her neck.  Though it tickles, she doesn’t brush it away.  It’s only the fifth fly she’s ever seen.    
  
“I overheard Octavia Blake and that grounder boy talking,” she says after a moment as though he hasn’t spoken at all.  “The Commander is barely twenty years old.”  Marcus rubs a hand over his face.  
  
“Yes, Abby.  And those are twenty years that she has spent on Earth, which amounts to twenty more than we have.”  There’s a touch of an edge to his voice; not enough to set her off, but enough to let her know that he would like to voice his opinion without contest.  She lets out a quiet hum.    
  
“They’re being led by a child.”  Marcus’s smile is dry when his eyes meet hers.  
  
“So are we.”  The thought catches in Abby’s chest, and then spirals into a memory of a little blonde toddler clutching the single crayon that was her birthday gift.  It twitches into an image of Jake, bent over a tablet screen, brow furrowed with determination.  Nausea rises in her throat.    
  
“We’ve done terrible things, Marcus.  How can we be sure that letting children decide our fate isn’t just another round on the same train?”  She’s not crying, but she’s not not-crying, either.  No handkerchiefs made it down from the Ark.  It seems incredible that there are none now when they are likely to need them most.    
  
Marcus isn’t crying either, but his smile is sad in a way that she’s never seen it before.  A moment later, she realizes that this is the only kind of smile she’s ever seen him make.  
  
“Maybe the children ought to get a chance to steer the boat,” he says quietly.  “If anyone can bring us safely to shore, Clarke can.”  Abby lets her eyes close again.  
  
“With a mother like me?”  Marcus’s short exhale isn’t quite a laugh.  
  
“Maybe not.  But maybe with a father like Jake.”  It’s the last crack in the dam that finally makes it break.  
  
“I’m losing her, Marcus.”  The words come out choked from tears.  It’s the first time she’s cried since all of this began; not once, since making the decision to send the Hundred to the ground, has Abby let a tear fall.  She hasn’t had the time to be sad.  “You know that she’s — leaving us for those people.  I can feel it.  You saw her wearing that grounder Alpha’s coat, and the way she carries herself — she speaks words of their language.  She looks more like one of them already.”  When she opens her eyes, Marcus’s smile is a shade lighter than before.  
  
“She looks alive to me,” he points out gently.  The sun is stronger in the cracked window.    
  
The words alight on Abby’s shoulder with the fly, and she bats neither of them away. 

* * *

 

Anya had no idea that Clarke had such bright blue eyes.    
  
In this particular area of the forest, the sun is angled just right so that it filters down through the treetops and highlights the brightest streaks in Clarke’s hair, the glow of freckles across her skin; the brilliant blue of her eyes that snaps with the cold water of the creek.  She’s soaking wet, her underclothes clinging to her skin and water droplets catching the light where they’re scattered across her shoulders.    
  
Only around a month has passed since the drop, and only a few days since their arrival in Tondisi after escaping the Maunon, but Earth’s effects are already visible on the Omega’s body.  The Skaikru who just arrived are grey-faced and scrawny, but Clarke has had a head start.  She is wiry with the effort of building camps and fighting back and running constantly from enemies.  She has spent the past few days eating well, too, and already the hollows of her body are beginning to fill out a little.  Half-dressed, bathed in freezing water and in sunlight, she is absolutely stunning.    
  
Anya is absolutely, entirely, one-hundred-percent fucked.    
  
To be fair, it’s her own fault that she’s stumbled across this particular little scene.  When Octavia beckoned earlier to Clarke to follow her into the woods in the direction of the river, Anya was too caught up with weapons preparation to pay her much attention.  A little while later, Gustus’s request for algae to steep into tea for Jean’s head cold roused her out of the war tent.  Though Anya has reveled in the safety of Lexa’s presence, being in tents has been making her a little claustrophobic lately.  She attributes it to the relief of finally being free of the room of cages; as safe as Lexa’s war tent is, it still is devoid of windows, and Anya, at the moment, can’t stand to be inside.    
  
She didn’t stop to consider what she might find if she ventured this far upstream.    
  
The bathing pool lies in a bow of the stream along a small gravel beach.  Coming around the corner, there’s no way that Anya hasn’t been spotted.  It’s not as though she’s not eager to see Clarke — on the contrary, it’s rather the opposite — but Anya also isn’t stupid.  She knows what she looks like right now.  Rounding the corner of the stream bed, she’s halted knee-deep in water with her algae net hanging limply from her hands.  Her mouth is slightly open, and she knows that her eyes are frozen on Clarke’s bare arms, but no matter what she does she can’t seem to make herself look up.  It’s an utterly humiliating position to be caught in.  
  
Clarke clearly isn’t stupid either, for when Anya finally finds herself able to raise her eyes, it is to find the Omega smirking.    
  
Their eyes meet, and though the contact holds, neither of them make a move to speak.  Anya stands there, struck dumb with her arms covered to the elbows in red algae, gawking.  Clarke’s eyes are darker than usual, something a little hot burning in their depths.  The look is intense; the sight of it causes heat to bloom low in Anya’s stomach.  Caught in a staring contest, it’s all she can do to hold Clarke’s eyes and stop her gaze from traveling down across planes of soft skin . . .  
  
“Well, unless you two are open to a threesome, I think I’ll be taking my leave.”  Octavia’s voice breaks through the moment slowly, in fragments.  Blinking, it takes Anya a moment to register it.   When the words finally hit, she shakes herself guiltily and clears her head with a start.    
  
“I wasn’t — ”  
  
“We were not — ”  She and Clarke stumble over each other in their defenses, causing Octavia to lift an eyebrow with a deep smirk.    
  
“Whatever you say.  I was thinking of heading back anyway to get the shit kicked out of me in training with Indra.  You coming, Clarke, or do you want to stay and continuing your eye-fucking?”  Anya has to restrain a chuckle as Clarke’s cheeks flush bright red.    
  
“I — I’m not — I don’t want to be in the way if Anya has a job to do,” she stammers out in a wild attempt at defending her dignity.  It fails miserably, if the look Octavia’s giving her is any indication.  Anya blinks.  
  
“Job?” she tries to clarify, because in all honesty, her brain blanked out the moment she came around the corner of the stream bed and found herself face-to-face with Clarke’s mostly uncovered cleavage.  Ears still a little red, Clarke gestures at her.  
  
“The algae?” she prompts.  Anya glances down and discovers that the net filled with algae still dangles from her fingertips.  Right.    
  
“I am not busy,” she decides, even though the opposite is true and Gustus will likely be irritated with her for returning late.  She might get scolded, but another stray glance at Clarke’s legs, and Anya decides she doesn’t care.  “I would be happy to stay with you if you would not mind the company.”  The last part is a little quieter, a little smaller with the admission that doesn’t quite disguise the heavier implications that she will not voice.  She sees, though, that Clarke picks up on it; the look behind the Omega’s eyes grows more difficult to decipher.  Through the clear riverside air, Anya can pick up the way her scent shifts the slightest bit at the Alpha’s lowered tone.    
  
“Well, that’s my cue,” Octavia declares.  A slight wrinkling of the younger Alpha’s nose lets Anya know that she, too, has scented Clarke’s response.  “This has been great.  Let’s be sure to do it again soon.”  She yanks her pants up and shoulders her pack with a roguish grin.  “Have fun you two; be safe.”  She tosses the latter over her shoulder as she turns on her heel, and a moment later, she’s vanished back into the woods.  Anya watches her go with a frown of confusion.  
  
“There are no water snakes here; I do not know why we would not be safe — ” she begins to voice her puzzlement when Clarke cuts her off, ears once again slightly pink.  
  
“It doesn’t matter.”  She looks distinctly embarrassed, as though she’s been caught doing something illicit.  Anya’s not quite sure why.  She knows that the Skaikru have different beliefs regarding the appropriateness of nudity, but Clarke isn’t fully nude, and in any case, they’re technically in a public venue.  She’s not sure what could be making Clarke uncomfortable other than her own presence, but the wave of pheromones she’s getting make her fairly certain that that’s not it.    
  
Feeling a little lost with the net still dangling from her fingertips, Anya casts her gaze around for something safe to comment on.  It almost works, but then Clarke shifts her weight a little, the movement draws Anya’s eyes to her bare legs, and then they’re both blushing.  
  
This will never do.    
  
“Have you eaten yet?”  Anya settles on the question with her eyes trained firmly on the treetops.  She’s determined not to let this moment get to her, if only to preserve an ounce of her dignity.  It’s not that she’s prudish, not remotely, but something about the sight of Clarke mostly naked in front of her, alone, provokes dangerous thoughts.  
  
“We were about to.”  Clarke’s answer is neutral enough that Anya feels safe in bringing her gaze back down to where Clarke stands watching her.  “Octavia ran off without taking her half, so there’s plenty if . . . maybe you’d like to join me for lunch?”  The Omega seems hesitant, as though she’s unsure of whether Anya wishes to find herself in her company.  Anya wants to tell her how ridiculous that fear is, but she’s not about to risk the questions that might come along with such an assurance.  They feel like they’re teetering on a precipice of sorts already, and Anya’s going to hang on for dear life until someone gives her a push.    
  
“I would like that,” is what she comes up with instead, and watches Clarke’s countenance smooth out with visible relief.    
  
“Great,” the Omega exhales.  A moment later, she’s clambering unsteadily out of the river and crossing to the backpack she deposited on the shore.  Taking the hint, Anya follows, and by the time she has reached the spot Clarke has pulled out a bag filled with a spread fit for five people.    
  
“I thought Skaikru had little food to spare?” Anya comments at the sight of it.  There are apples and cuts of meat and fresh bread and wedges of cheese; there’s no way that this all came from inside Camp Jaha.  Clarke avoids her gaze as she begins to lay out the food on a cloth.  
“They do,” she confirms offhandedly.  “O’s an Alpha, though, so they gave her a lot of meat for lunch, and Callum found us in the woods after breakfast and told us Heda had sent him with the rest.”    
  
It’s just like Lexa, Anya thinks, to think of something like this.  Heda or not, the wellbeing of her people is always on her mind.  Apparently that extends to feeding defecting ambassadors lunch.  It’s exactly the kind of thing that has always set her apart from previous commanders, the type of consideration and down-to-earth humility that never fails to win her over to her people.    
  
Technically, Anya realizes, that includes Clarke; though she will continue to play the role of ambassador between their clans until the Maunon have been defeated, Clarke is one of Lexa’s people now, too.    
  
The thought gives Anya an unexpected rush.  It’s probably partially relief, she thinks, that comes with the knowledge that after this war, Clarke will no longer live among people who mistreat her.  She is also a healer, something immensely valuable to the Trikru as Nyko is currently the only one left.    
  
More than that, though, it’s the thought of Clarke in their villages, tending their people, learning their ways, that brings unexpected warmth to Anya’s chest.  For Clarke to be one of their people means that she will be one of Anya’s people, and that thought is almost enough to make her smile.  Already, Clarke has begun dressing more in the clothes of the Trikru; she uses the Trigedasleng she knows in conversation, and picks up a little more every day.  Like Octavia, Clarke is camouflaging herself into their culture with unprecedented rapidity and comfort.  
  
“You call her Heda.”  Clarke looks up when she says it, hands pausing in her arrangement of the food to meet her eyes.  She raises her eyebrows.  
  
“Should I be calling her something else?”  It’s not a challenge, but genuine concern, as though somehow Clarke fears that she has done something disrespectful.  Anya allows her lip to quirk slightly before she catches herself.    
  
“The Skaikru call her the Commander,” she explains.  “Yet you use our word.”  Slowly, Clarke nods.  She’s studying Anya with a curious look on her face, as though she can’t quite figure her intentions out.  
  
“Octavia calls her Heda,” she points out.  Wordlessly, she gestures to Anya to come join her on the gravel on the other side of the blanket where the food is laid out.  Anya obeys.

“Octavia has made it quite clear that the Trikru are her people,” she answers.  She waits for Clarke to reach for a piece of bread before taking her own; halfway through extending her arm, Clarke pauses, eyeing her suspiciously.  Anya, however, is not to be outdone, and only lets her eyes sparkle a little.  Frowning slightly, Clarke slowly reaches for the bread.  She munches it for a moment thoughtfully.  
  
“Octavia’s different,” she says contemplatively once she swallows.  “Skaikru have never been her people.  She has Bellamy, but other than that, there’s nothing to tie her to them, and she knows he’ll love her anyway.  You’ve been her people since the moment Lincoln found her.”  Anya considers that.  
  
“How can she have no one?” she asks after a moment.  “No friends or family?”  Clarke’s smile is a little twisted, rueful.  
  
“There is — was — a one-child rule on the Ark,” she explains.  “There weren’t enough resources for more than that.  Octavia’s mom having her was against the law since she’d already had Bellamy, so they had to hide her.  They kept her under the floor for sixteen years, and when they found her, she got thrown in jail.  So, other than her mom and Bellamy, she never even met another person before getting here.  She doesn’t feel like she owes them anything,” she concludes knowingly, taking another bite of bread.  Anya watches her intently.  
  
“And you?”  When Clarke’s eyes land on her, they’re understanding.    
  
“I have my mom,” she says slowly.  “She’s — she’s done a lot of things I disagree with, and we definitely don’t always see eye-to-eye, but she’s still my _mom._   I still love her, no matter how difficult she can be to get along with.  And the Hundred.  They’re my people — Octavia and Monty and Jasper and Bellamy and Harper and all the rest.”  Anya can’t contain a small, involuntary twitch at the mention of Bellamy’s name.  It doesn’t go unnoticed by Clarke, who narrows her eyes the tiniest bit at the sight of it.  Both of them freeze.  There passes a moment of tension in which Clarke watches her out of the corner of her eye, Anya unmoving.  
  
Then Clarke reaches for another bite of food, and the moment is broken.   
  
“Anyway,” Clarke continues as though there were no interruption.  “The Hundred are more my people than Skaikru are, but once they’re safe, I see no reason to stay at Camp Jaha.  They’ve never been kind to me on the Ark because I’m an Omega, so why should that be any different on the ground?”  She sounds the tiniest bit bitter as she says it.  It’s the first time Anya has heard her express anything but nonchalance at the behavior of Skaikru towards their Omegas.    
  
“It should be.”  Saying it is voicing the obvious, but it earns her a small smile of acknowledgment.    
  
The sight of it shouldn’t make her heart skip like this.  
  
“It should,” Clarke agrees, “but it isn’t.  Even without that, it doesn’t really matter.  They’re all pretty upset with me at the moment.”    
  
“Because of your friend.”  Anya wonders if it’s a mistake to mention him out loud, but Clarke doesn’t seem to mind.  On the contrary, she almost looks angry at herself.  
  
“Because I killed my friend,” she corrects bluntly.  Her expression has grown tight and harsh, but it doesn’t occur to Anya to attempt to soothe her.  She has seen people treat each other in awful ways and suffer the consequences, has stood by Lexa in her darkest hours, and she knows that some forms of grief are beyond comfort.    
  
For the first time, Anya considers — truly — what the boy Finn’s execution must have meant to Clarke.  He was her friend, she knows, and from the brief interaction they shared upon his capture, she thinks they may have been something more.  For Clarke to have chosen to put him to death for the sake of the victims of the mountain, Trikru and Skaikru alike, speaks volumes about what she is willing to do for her people.  It is the way of Omegas to be defensive in such a way; to be so determined.  It is why they often make for better leaders than Alphas.  They are willing to protect their people no matter the cost, just as they would their own pups.    
  
That protecting some of her friends has come at the expense of killing another of them speaks volumes about Clarke’s determination and strength as a leader.  After Clarke’s negotiations earlier, any of Anya’s lingering doubts about the Omega’s intentions are gone.  Clarke will stand by the Trikru, stand by Lexa, stand by _Anya,_ in an effort to protect them all.  She is willing to risk everything to keep them safe.    
  
“You are strong, you know.”  Anya tries to make the comment sound offhand.  By this point, she’s hugging her knees, looking out across the river.  She knows that if she were to turn, if she were to look Clarke in the eyes, it would be nearly impossible to look away.  She heard stories once of the magnets they used in the days of Old Earth, has seen the compasses that supposedly use them to find directions.  She thinks that looking at Clarke is a little like that, like Anya is that needle drawn irreversibly, unchangingly, by an irresistible force.  Compasses are supposed to show you the way home.  
  
In Anya’s world, they find their way home by the stars.    
  
“Not the way I want to be.”  Clarke’s admission is a whisper so tight it sounds like she’s barely breathing.  In the quiet air beside the river, it’s the sound that makes Anya turn, and when she does, she sees that Clarke’s eyes are welling up with tears.    
  
“You have accomplished what no other leader could have,” she says quickly, hoping to quell the Omega’s grief before it can fully take hold.  Seeing Clarke upset does something funny to her heart that makes her want to rip it out.  A life on Earth is filled with unavoidable pain, but Clarke is punishing herself, Anya is certain.  To know that she is blaming herself for a choice that will save them all makes her heart ache.    
  
“I didn’t _want_ to accomplish it that way.”  Clarke sounds immeasurably frustrated; having finished her bread, she has taken hold of her head between her hands and sits gripping her hair like it’s the only thing left grounding her to earth.  “I hate that I had to _kill_ people in order to save others.  It goes against everything — everything I am.  I’ve fought so hard to be giving, to be protective and defensive instead of aggressive, but we couldn’t survive that way the first few weeks.  We’ve needed to be on the offensive, we’ve needed to be hardened.  It feels like going against my nature.  I can fight and be protective, but lately, I’ve just had to fight; I’ve had to bury that nurturing side of myself completely in order to survive, and I _hate_ that,” she declares fiercely.  “I’ve just discovered this whole, wonderful side of myself that I’ve been missing, and now I’ve been forced to crush it down and ignore it.  It _hurts_ to ignore that part of me,” she adds passionately, and Anya can see her eyes grow tight with the memory.     
  
Anya can feel the intensity of her own gaze, but she doesn’t bother to modify it.  Reaching out, she grips the Omega’s chin gently in her fingers to turn her head to face her.    
  
“And it would,” she says softly, though her voice is firm.  “Your Omega instincts are strong; they are what should guide you.  Your soul should be what guides you.  Your protectiveness, your instinct to defend and nurture and support, are important parts of who you are.  On Earth, we honor that.”  Clarke glances down; Anya’s hand has covered hers, keeping it pressed between warm, strong fingers and equally warm gravel.    
  
Hesitantly, Anya begins to speak, and then falters, falling quiet.  Clarke’s eyes flick upward to meet hers, and they are dark.  
  
“What?” she prompts softly.  Anya casts her eyes away.  After a moment, hesitant, she tentatively voices her question.  
  
“You loved this _skai_ boy?”  Her words are met with silence.  When the quiet extends for longer than is comfortable, Anya glances back up, fearing that she has pushed too far.  Clarke is gazing at her intently, unmoving.  
  
After a long, long minute, slowly, Clarke shakes her head.  
  
“No,” she whispers.  Anya nods.  
  
“But he loved you.”  It’s not a question, but Clarke turns her full body to face her with her eyes keen and sharp.  
  
“Does it matter if he did?”  She phrases the question lightly, but there is an undertone of caution to it.  It makes it sound somehow as though Clarke, too, is afraid, though Anya can’t imagine of what.  The days before a war always make it feel as though everyone has both nothing and everything to lose.    
  
Anya holds her gaze for a long time, considering.    
  
“I have taken too many lives to judge their value to the ones they love,” is what she eventually settles on in response.  It’s nowhere near encompassing all of the messy, desperate emotions that are tumbling about in her chest, but for now, it will have to do.  This conversation is growing dangerously near what they have been avoiding for so long, and Anya can’t — won’t — put Clarke in yet another uncomfortable position.  She refuses to make any of this about her, no matter how much she yearns to involve herself.  If this fragile barrier stretching between them is going to break, Clarke is going to have to be the one to break it.  Anya will not force her hand the way that so many others are inclined to.    
  
Suddenly uncomfortable, Anya casts her gaze around, uncertain of how to proceed.  It occurs to her that she’s actively avoiding Clarke’s eyes, and that such a motion probably looks obvious, but she’s not sure she can risk eye contact at the moment.  She knows that if Clarke were to see her expression, nothing of what is currently running through her mind would be hidden anymore.  She’s already certain that whatever scent she’s putting out is obvious enough. There’s a certain tension in the air that Anya feels it’s her duty to dispel, if only to distract herself from her own inconvenient thoughts of wanting to acknowledge whatever this _thing_ is that’s building between them.    
  
Clarke’s next question is so far removed from their current conversation, however, that Anya is caught completely off-guard.  
  
“What do you like to do when you’re not fighting wars?”  Anya is so startled that she forgets her resolve not to look at her.  Turning to the Omega in surprise, she studies her with her mouth half-open, ready to form words that do not come.  It has been years since anyone has asked Anya anything remotely like that, and she finds that it takes her a moment to find a suitable answer for it.    
  
 _“Ai — ”_ Fumbling, Anya begins speaking in Trigedasleng.  Clarke is watching her in vague amusement, and it occurs to her subconsciously that at least Anya talking about herself has brought the Omega’s tears to an end.  “I am _timbakata_ — I do not know your _gonasleng_ word,” she admits haltingly.  For some reason, she finds that she feels self-conscious.  “I build . . . objects . . . with wood.  Furniture, toys.”  Anya feels something a little like shyness creeping over her at the explanation.  She doesn’t know why; it isn’t like no one knows this.  She has built the tables and beds for half the homes in her village, yet somehow, telling this to Clarke makes her feel strangely nervous.    
  
Clarke’s eyes are lit up with delight.    
  
“You’re a carpenter!” she exclaims in sudden comprehension.  “A woodcarver — what was the word you called it?”  A little bemused, but oddly pleased, Anya repeats it for her, and Clarke nods solemnly as though committing the word to memory.  There’s something brighter in her expression than there was before, as though Anya sharing this small fact about herself has lit a fire within her.  “I like painting,” Clarke confides, and her eyes are shining.  “I guess we’re both kind of artists, aren’t we?”  Anya squints curiously.  
  
“Painting?”  Clarke nods.    
  
“Or drawing — anything, really; we didn’t have a lot of art supplies on the Ark, so I worked with what I could,” she explains.  “I used to draw a lot of pictures of Earth, actually, before we came here.  Forests, mostly.  Funny that they looked a lot like this one.”  Something flutters in Anya at the thought.    
  
“You drew forests like this?” she repeats, and Clarke turns fully to face her, seeming to notice her tone.    
“And mountains.  Rivers, too.  I drew a lot after . . . when I was in prison.”  Anya wonders what causes the correction, but doesn’t ask.  “I was in solitary, so I had nothing to do and no one to talk to, so . . . I drew.  A lot.  I always dreamed about what the Earth would look like, and how the people on the Ark would go back to it in another hundred years, but I never thought I’d actually be here.”  The fluttering thing in Anya’s chest settles into a hard knot.  She knew Clarke was imprisoned back on the Skaikru’s Ark, but the Omega never said anything before about being alone.  The thought of Clarke alone up in space, drawing pictures of the forests and mountains that Anya has always called home, brings a sharp ache into her throat.    
  
“You are here now.”  The words are a little strangled when they escape her, and Anya is forced to draw a deep breath in order to ease them.  “Earth is your home now.”  _You could have a home with me._   The jolts her, unbidden.  Anya forces it down.  
  
“It is.”  Clarke’s voice is low but light; she tilts her head a little as she studies Anya.  “I wish I could draw it now, though, now that I know what it looks like.  There are so many beautiful things here that I’d love to draw.”  While Anya files that information away for later, Clarke pauses and shifts.  Without the food on the blanket, there is very little space left between them.  In fact, it seems that Clarke has been inching closer throughout their conversation, for the two of them by now are almost shoulder-to-shoulder.  Anya feels a shiver go through her.  
  
“Would you show me something you’ve carved someday?”  Of all the times she could be tentative, Clarke has chosen now.  She gazes up at Anya through fluttering eyelashes as she speaks, and suddenly, the Alpha finds that her throat has gone quite dry.    
  
 _“Sha,”_ she agrees, and is surprised to hear that the words leave her in a whisper.  “If you would like.”  It takes a moment to fully absorb what the request indicates: that beyond just being allies, Clarke wants to get to _know_ her.  It has been years since anyone has wanted that.  Something in Anya tightens pleasantly at the thought of showing Clarke the village where she grew up, the home she has made for herself; the chairs and cabinets she has built with loving hands.  Unbidden, the image rises to her mind of a picture frame she once carved, waiting in her workroom, encasing a painting of trees and a starry night sky.    
  
Clarke has pressed just a little closer, and the closing of the last bit of distance between them has their shoulders brushing.  Anya thinks she must be imagining the way her arm grows suddenly warmer at the touch.    
  
“I would like that very much,” the Omega murmurs.  They fall quiet after that for a minute, shoulder to shoulder with the breeze brushing across their cheeks.  It is the quietest moment they have had since traveling together through the forest.  Somehow, Anya finds that she has been missing it.  Not the fear and pain and urgency; she has missed being with Clarke like this, being near her without fear of what may happen next or what enemy will strike.  In a way, those days in the forest were a gift.  
  
Anya can’t think of anyone else who she would rather have done it with.    
  
It’s a journey that came close to never unfolding at all.  In the Reaper tunnels beneath the mountain, when Clarke was recaptured, Anya could have left her there.  In fact, she very nearly did.  Clarke’s capture brought about enough distraction that she was able to make it all the way to the end of the tunnel with the waterfall to find the way out.  She reached the exit, and paused.  All that remained for her to do was jump.  One leap, and she would be free — free to run back to Tondisi and Lexa to bring revenge upon the Maunon without the hindrance of an underfed little _skai gada._    
  
And yet Anya turned back.    
  
She doesn’t know what made her do it; she’s not sure she ever will.  Certainly, at that point, there was nothing tying her to Clarke, no desire to preserve her wellbeing.  It would have been so _easy_ for her to simply escape, deserting the Omega and leaving her at the mercy of the Maunon.  She had vague ideas about presenting Lexa with a war prize, perhaps a hope of avenging those murdered in the burned village or the warriors killed in the battle of the drop ship, but those were half-formed thoughts at best, none of them conscious enough to warrant her turning back.    
  
And still she went back for Clarke.    
  
Anya can’t think of anything except that, for whatever reason she did it, she’s glad she did.  
  
The air around them has warmed considerably in the time that they’ve been talking.  The rocks beneath Anya are heated with the sun and her own body, and despite the chill of the water she was walking in earlier, she has begun to sweat.  It’s a hot day, summer’s last gasp before full autumn.    
  
“Would you like to learn how to swim?”  Anya doesn’t know what prompts her to offer it other than the fact that if not today, it will likely be summer-start before such an opportunity arises again.  The hot air has her restless.  They have time to kill, and there’s a chance that the travels of the next few days might involve some passage through water.  The knowledge won’t hurt.    
  
Clarke eyes her in pleased surprise at the suggestion, but her expression is hesitant.  
  
“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly.  “It’s a bit dangerous, isn’t it?  What if we both get swept away?”  Heaving herself to her feet and brushing off her legs, Anya fights the urge to roll her eyes.  Were the comment from a member of the Trikru, she would scoff at such a preposterous question, but she reminds herself that Clarke is different.  The people of the Ark had no reason to swim, nor a place in which to learn.  They have been space-locked for nearly a century; it isn’t Clarke’s fault that she doesn’t have an innate understanding of how water behaves.  
  
“This sort of river is perfectly safe,” Anya reassures her instead, now tugging the jacket from her shoulders.  “Do you see that rock there, out in the middle?  Watch how the water moves around it.  There are no bubbles, and the water does not rush.  It means the current is slow.  Besides,” she adds, “I am a good swimmer.  I will not let you drown.”  The promise feels like an assurance she can hold herself to; nervous and unsteady though this Omega may make her, Anya is perfectly confident in her ability to keep Clarke safe.    
  
Seeing that Clarke still hesitates, she stills, now stripped down to her bindings, and takes a small step forward.  With it, she places herself hardly inches from Clarke.  When she breathes, she can see Clarke shiver.    
  
“Do you trust me, _ai strikon?”_ she murmurs; the question curls between them, her lips mere inches from the curve of Clarke’s ear.  A small, almost undetectable tremble wracks the muscles where Clarke’s shoulder joins her neck.  Clarke’s scent is most powerful there, rich and warm and heavy; she smells of sun-heated skin and uncertainty and _Omega._   When Anya inhales, the taste of it floods her senses and swirls beneath her skin, down beside her heart and into her belly.    
  
 _“Sha.”_ Clarke’s whisper is so quiet that Anya has to strain to catch it; with the breath of the breeze in her ear, she almost misses it.  With a soft hum, Anya steps back, only to extend a hand.    
  
“Come,” she beckons, wiggling her fingers a little when Clarke doesn’t immediately respond.  “The only way for it is to dive right in.”    
  
Clarke eyes the water trepidatiously.  
  
“It’s cold,” is all she says, and Anya can tell that she’s running out of protests.    
  
“And that is why you must learn, _sha?_   The movement will warm you up.”  Light as it is, she thinks Clarke catches the teasing hint in her tone, for she garners a tiny twitch of the lips in response.  When she beckons again, Clarke reaches out, and then their fingers are tangled together and Anya is pulling her towards the water.    
  
Anya waits until they’re thigh-deep to speak again.  Clarke is huddled in on herself slightly, shivering, and the Alpha allows a twinge of guilt to enter her before shaking it off.  The air may be hot, but the water is chilly; still, it will be bearable so long as they don’t linger too long.    
  
“When the water reaches your chest, I want you to take my hands,” she warns, watching Clarke stop in protest of the cold water.  “Then you are to kick your feet as hard as you can.  You will probably sink at first.”  She can’t help laughing a little to see Clarke’s expression seized by mild alarm.  “Do not worry, though — your head may go underwater, but I will not let you go.  This is how we teach children.  It is not so bad as you imagine.”    
  
“That’s what you think,” Clarke mutters, but she continues to wade deeper regardless.  Once the water is brushing her chest, she comes to a halt and eyes Anya with anxiety apparent on her face.  Somehow, she looks oddly out of place with her arms held awkwardly aloft, the water dampening the bottom of her bindings.  “Now?” she asks tentatively.  In wordless agreement, Anya holds out her hands; Clarke seizes them like a lifeline and clings tightly.  It’s almost enough to stir Anya to actual laughter, but she restrains herself, knowing that Clarke likely would not take well to be laughed at while half-submerged in a freezing river.  
  
“Now kick,” she instructs.  Immediately, Clarke obeys, but the attempt is an awkward one.  She is standing when she begins, and doesn’t know enough to tilt her body off the river bed, so she goes up and then backward rather than forwards.  She flails and pulls, dragging Anya with her as she falls, and they both crash into the water with a yelp and a gasp.  
  
It takes them both a moment to surface, but the water here is still shallow, and true to her word, Anya has not let go.  Clarke emerges gasping and spluttering, spitting water from her mouth and blinking wildly in protest.  When water continues to drip down her face into her open mouth, she shakes her head like a dog, sending water droplets flying every which way.  
  
Anya doesn’t laugh, but she allows herself to smirk in unhidden amusement.    
  
Clarke sputters.  
  
“You said you wouldn’t let me drown!” she accuses, and then Anya can’t help the chuckle that escapes.    
  
“You are far from drowned, _skai prisa,”_ she tells her with a smug smirk.  “I told you that you would go under the first time.  I think, though, that I have a better idea,” she continues when Clarke looks mutinous.  “I am going to hold you, and you will let yourself float to get used to the idea of your feet being off the ground.  Is that acceptable?”  She can’t withhold a teasing note from her voice as Clarke glares at her.  The Omega’s eyes narrow, but the expression holds no real malice.  In a moment, she gives herself a little shake.  
  
“Fine,” Clarke acquiesces with feigned stiffness.  “But if you let me drown, I’ll sic Octavia on you, and then you’ll really be sorry.”  Anya’s smirk broadens.  
  
“The little _skai gona_ could use the training,” is her only comment.  “Now come here and turn around.”    
  
It only takes a moment for Anya to realize how close this will put them, but by the time she realizes it, it’s too late.  As soon as Clarke has obediently turned around, Anya steps up close behind her.  She enfolds the Omega in her arms, one snaking around her waist while the other braces across the front of her shoulders, and carefully steps back.  With the way that they’re positioned, Clarke’s legs come free, and suddenly she’s floating with only the weight of Anya’s arms to hold her down.  
  
The minute her legs are floating, Clarke lets out a tiny gasp, but otherwise has fallen quiet.  It only takes her a moment of tenseness at the new feeling to relax into Anya.  Her body loosens, leaning back into the Alpha’s arms as her head falls back against her shoulder.  The current here is light, tugging playfully at Anya’s ankles.  She’s caught, suddenly, between the pull at her feet and the pull in her chest that’s less easily defined.  The water is freezing.  It sends a tense chill through her bones, but Anya hardly notices it as it ebbs and flows around them, against the little pockets where their bodies touch and curve.    
  
“Better?” Anya murmurs.  Pressed as close as they are, her lips are almost brushing Clarke’s ear.  The Omega shudders.    
  
“Better,” she whispers.  Reassured, Anya falls quiet, and for a long time, neither of them speak another word.    
  
It is oddly pleasant to stand like this despite the icy bite of the water.  The forest around them is still but for birdsong and the occasional ruffle of a breeze, and the river murmurs soothingly at its banks.  There is cold at Anya’s back, and warmth at her front, and the feeling is somehow comforting.  The contrast reminds her of the dead of winter, standing in front of fires to warm herself, her hands and cheeks toasting while her shoulders and back ache with cold.  There is something anchor like about standing this way, Clarke suspended in her grasp.  In her arms, Clarke is being granted freedom with the knowledge that with Anya at her back, she remains perfectly safe.  In the sensation of it, in the sway of the river and the tiny shifting movements of their bodies, the curl of the water around their feet, there is something almost meditative.  Calming; steady.  Anya allows herself to close her eyes.  
  
“What is your word for Alpha?”  Clarke voices the question out of the blue after a long bought of easy silence.  Caught up in thought, Anya startles a little and loosens her hold.  Immediately, Clarke begins to sink a little, and she quickly tightens her arms around the Omega’s torso. 

_“Giva,”_ she answers once she has collected herself from the brief lapse in attention.    
  
“Giver?”  Against the side of Clarke’s head, Anya nods.  She can feel her cheek brushing against the shell of the Omega’s ear, and has to resist the urge to lean in and nuzzle like a kitten marking its territory.    
  
“I suppose that is where the word comes from, yes,” she agrees.  “There is no other word for someone who gives.  We exist to provide Omegas with the things they need to sustain them: loyalty, companionship, comfort.  Pups.”  Clarke lets out a quiet hum.  
  
“And Omega?”  Around her waist, Anya’s arms involuntarily tighten a little.    
  
 _“Treja.”_    
  
“Tre-ja?”    
  
“A soft _zh,_ like your _gonasleng_ ‘vision,’” Anya corrects her pronunciation.  Clarke repeats it, this time correctly, her accent barely distinguishable.  She’s good at languages, Anya has noticed.  Quick.   
  
“And what does that mean?”  Perhaps Clarke can sense the funny, fluttery feeling in Anya’s stomach, for she presses her weight backward a little in a movement that feels like an attempt to soothe.  Anya swallows at the sensation of the full length of heated skin pressed against her in the light chill of the water.  
  
“Treasure,” she replies, and can’t quite find it in her to be ashamed that the answer comes out sounding a little choked.  Once again, Clarke hums softly in acknowledgment.  The vibrations of it travel into Anya’s cheek where their heads are pressed together, and from there down to her heart.    
  
“Anya?”    
  
“Klark?”    
  
 _“Yu laik os Giva.”_   Anya’s eyes fall closed.  Octavia and Clarke, it seems, have been teaching each other more of the language.  Anya didn’t teach Clarke that os means good, nor how to string together such a sentence.    
  
The quiet, earnest praise spoken in her native tongue causes something warm to prick at her veins.  Against her cheekbone, Clarke’s damp hair is soft and sweet-smelling.  Pressed this close, Anya is enveloped in her scent, warm and heady.  It’s the kind of thing of which she has dreamt, kept awake on rainy nights when the wind is harsh; cold and lonely in the bed in which she has lain alone for so long.    
  
She cannot contain the pressure of her palm on Clarke’s belly from pressing just a little deeper.  Anya does not dare to hope, cannot for fear that her quiet wish will be dashed to pieces by rejection or war or loss.  There is a safe, deep place in the corner of her heart in which she has kept her messy hopes and lonely dreams buried, and Anya is afraid.  She cannot bear to see those deepest, most secret desires brought to light only to lose them again.    
  
And yet she cannot help herself from hoping, just a little.  Something about the scent in her nose, the gentle words, the electric eyes, the trust Clarke has placed in her, has dug its way into her and taken root.  There’s an odd, floating feeling in Anya’s chest, like she is holding on by only the loosest of tethers, and if it reaches the end of its fraying, she will be swept away.  Perhaps it’s only the water.    
  
Then again, perhaps it is something more. 

* * *

 

As enjoyable as days of freedom with Anya are, being back among the Skaikru adults is a highly unpleasant ordeal.    
  
For starters, Abby seems to feel the beginnings of remorse and is making every effort to redeem herself in her daughter’s eyes.  It isn’t working.  As much as Clarke loves her, as much as she has missed her and worried about her in her absence, Abby’s attempts to reconnect aren’t managing to hit home.  In simple terms, Clarke thinks she’s half-assing it.  She sits beside Clarke at mealtimes and tries to engage her in conversation but refuses to acknowledge Clarke’s explanations of what the Trikru have to offer.  She seeks her out at night, hoping to tend her lingering injuries, but won’t listen when Clarke tries to tell her about Omega traditions in the clans.  Most of all, she refuses to speak of Finn, and manages to arrange her features into a sour expression every time his name is mentioned.    
  
Clarke can’t stand it.  
  
With the majority of Skaikru continuing to stubbornly resist relations with the grounders, Clarke follows Octavia’s lead and spends as much time as possible outside the confines of Camp Jaha.  Indra might be stony-faced and intimidating, but Clarke finds her presence far preferable to the dirty looks Raven shoots her way every time she enters the tech lab.  Gustus, Callum, and Jean are even fun to talk to once she gets past the fact that all of them are carrying heavy weapons at all hours of the day and night.  Even the Commander is less stressful to be around — Lexa’s solemn predictions of the number of people that are going to die are grim, but at least she’s not spending her time muttering about the heathenish tendencies of their allies.  Or, if she is, she’s wise enough not to do it within Skaikru’s hearing.    
  
Clarke finds that she wouldn’t half mind even if she did.  She’s on the verge of giving the Skaikru a piece of her mind herself.  
  
The state of her fellow Omegas is making Clarke’s heart ache.  She has yet to speak to Raven, who has been avoiding her studiously since Finn’s execution and glares darkly at her every time they’re in the same space, but it’s apparent even from a distance that the mechanic is suffering.  Abby has scrounged up a few painkillers for her injured leg, but they don’t seem to be helping much.  Even with the brace, she limps badly, and her face is often contorted with pain.  She looks thinner, too, and more exhausted with every day.  Clarke knows that the girl’s suffering would likely lessen if only she were to get a reasonable amount of nourishment, but such a mercy is, apparently, too much to ask.   
  
Murphy, too, is a mess, so much more so than usual that the effect is pitiful.  Shunned by every sector of the Ark survivors, he has become something of a cast-off, scrounging for scraps after meals and sleeping on the floor in corners like a flea-ridden dog that no one wants to let into the house.  His cheeks are hollow, his eyes shadowed, and the way he winces when he moves suggests broken ribs, likely from a kick aimed at him when someone found his presence irritating.  Clarke can’t bring herself to like him, hates him for what he did to Raven and Charlotte, but she can’t stop herself from feeling a bit of pity whenever she hears a desperate whine issue from his throat.  Whatever else he’s done, she knows that he tried to stop Finn’s massacre.  It has earned him a tiny measure of respect.  
  
None of them may be on the best of terms, but the treatment that her fellow Omegas are facing fills Clarke with fury.  It’s bad enough that she, the daughter of a Council member and leader of the Hundred besides, receives nothing but minuscule portions of already inadequate food.  At least she has the benefit of having experienced a relatively comfortable upbringing.  Murphy and Raven have never had such a luxury, and for them to suffer such dismal treatment feels like kicking them while they’re down.    
  
It’s not just the food, either.  After much debate, Clarke has taken to sleeping in a bunk provided for her in Camp Jaha, she and Octavia believing that it is best, at least for now, to not rock the boat for the sake of their shared goals.  It’s not an enjoyable experience.  Back on the Ark, Clarke was underage and in the care of her parents, and later of the Sky Box.  Now, though, being an adult, she discovers that her designation has entered the picture in a way she didn’t expect.  In her family’s quarters on the Ark, she had the same bedding from the time she was a child until after she presented.  In the Sky Box, all covers were standard-issue; thin, but uniform across the board.    
  
Now, in the distribution of supplies, her Omega status has come into play once more.  She’s seen the insides of other people’s quarters in passing; she knows that many have received adequate bedding.  Her own, distributed by a hastily appointed supply supervisor, leaves something to be desired.  The pillow is old and a little moldy without the Ark’s climate controls, and her covers are nothing but a thin and ragged blanket thrown over an old mattress.  She hasn’t been sleeping well, and the discomfort and exhaustion is beginning to make her feel a little ill.  She’s better off than Murphy, who she’s caught sleeping in the horse paddock once or twice, but the arrangement is painfully transparent.  She has no doubt that Bellamy’s blankets are much heavier than her own.  Briefly, knowing of his absence, she even considers stealing them, but old habits die hard, and the reminder of old Ark laws makes her keep her hands to herself.    
  
It’s only temporary, but Clarke is miserable.    
  
Between her association with the Trikru and the fact that she was the one to push the dagger between Finn’s ribs, Clarke is attracting a significant number of dirty looks everywhere she goes.  There have been a number of incidents in which the glares have almost turned to something more violent, but so far, everyone has at least held off from becoming physically aggressive.  Clarke can’t be sure, but she suspects that Lexa has something to do with it.  Former enemy or not, Lexa is a formidable presence when she so chooses, and the aura she projects around the Skaikru isn’t particularly inviting.  Clarke thinks that it’s probably fear of the Commander’s retaliation alone that’s keeping anyone from tackling her bodily to the floor for executing one of their own.    
  
Such an incident occurs on day two of Lincoln and Bellamy’s absence.    
  
Clarke is alone, walking from the infirmary where she has been gathering more bandages.  She doesn’t like to make a habit of being in the compound more than necessary, but Lexa has asked for them to begin preparations for departure for Tondisi.  The Trikru’s only remaining healer — Nyko, Clarke remembers — will meet them there, but they will need supplies.  It is foolish to presume that everyone will escape this war alive and uninjured, and with only four acting medics between the two clans, the armies are going to need all the help they can get.  Furthermore, Anya has explained, the more assurance Lexa can offer that the clans will not lose too much in this battle, the better her chances of convincing the Kongeda to join them.    
  
Clarke has therefore taken a detour from her usual route through the Ark — preferring to avoid the infirmary and Abby whenever possible — and is making her way back to the exit towards the main gate when the confrontation occurs.    
  
Since Finn’s execution, no one is currently locked in the holding cells.  However, Clarke has noticed in the past few days that a certain group has taken up residence near them.  Whether it’s for a lack of quarters elsewhere, or because this part of the Ark is unusually quiet, she’s not certain, but the spot has attracted an odd amount of traffic.  She usually recognizes a few familiar faces among them when she passes, most of them friendly.  Today, however, her stomach sinks to see that Felix is among them.    
  
Clarke has been doing a good job of avoiding him since he threatened Anya following Finn’s execution.  He was, she knows, an assistant teacher of Earth Skills on the Ark.  Finn, with his quick mind, would have been a favorite of his.  She doesn’t fear the man, especially since her threat the other day seemed sufficient in making him back down.  However, she’s well aware that he’s an Alpha, and one who is furious with her at that.  His anger at her over Finn’s death will only have increased since she forced him to back down.  Being put in his place, by an Omega at that, was a humiliating ordeal for him.    
  
Clarke isn’t afraid, but she isn’t exactly eager to strike up a conversation.  Accordingly, she speeds up marginally at the sight of him.  She’s hoping to make it to the end of the hallway where it intersects with a larger, busier corridor; there, she will be able to slip into the crowd of people that seems to perpetually move through the halls.  She has gone no further than the end of the row of cells, however, when Felix’s gruff voice halts her in her tracks.  
  
“Where’re you goin’ in such a hurry?”  Clarke’s eyes close briefly as she stops.  It’s not a particularly threatening way of addressing her — despite his old status as an instructor, she’s never thought of him as particularly intelligent — but the fact that he’s called out to her doesn’t bode well.  She doubts that this salutation is a courtesy for old time’s sake.  When the next words out of his mouth are a muttered, _“prissy Omega brat,”_ she knows that it isn’t.    
  
Clarke shouldn’t be stopping.  It’s stupid; she knows it, but she’s tired, and a little irritable for lack of sleep, and if he’s going to yell at her she’d rather he just gets it over with.  
  
Drawing a slow breath from suddenly shallow lungs, Clarke steels herself and turns.  
  
“What can I do for you, Felix?”  Her attempt at a polite tone might as well have been a snarl for all the good it does her.  Felix is a lot closer to her than she anticipated, scruffy in the dim light from a distant window.  He reeks of Alpha and unwashed clothing and something she suspects might be moonshine, and by the way he’s glaring at her, she sees immediately that any attempts at pleasantries on her part will be a waste of time.    
  
When Felix laughs, the sound is more ominous than amusing.    
  
“What can she do for me, she asks?”  He’s addressing the corridor at large, which has fallen silent at the sight of their confrontation.  There aren’t a lot of them — mostly single, middle-aged people Clarke recognizes as some of the Ark’s poorer group — but they’re all watching intently.  “Funny how a couple days ago she was deciding what was best for all of us without askin’ us first.”  The glint in his eyes makes it quite clear that he doesn’t find it funny at all.  “Since when did Omegas start making decisions, huh?  I thought the only thing they were good for was a bitch to breed.”  Having grown up surrounded by any manner of similar comments, the words aren’t an unfamiliar entity, but their crudeness makes Clarke wince.  Short as her time among the Trikru has been, the lack of vulgar insults has been a pleasant change to which she has begun to grow accustomed.    
  
“That’s right,” Felix continues with a little more vigor when his words are met with an approving nod or two from their audience.  “How’s an Omega going to lead her people when everybody knows the only thing she can think about is a knot in her cunt?  She thinks she’s saving us all, but she goes and kills a harmless little Beta boy because that’s what these barbarians’ _commander_ wants her to do.  An Alpha tells her to kill one of her own and this little bitch goes and does it — I bet an army’s not all their _Heda_ is commanding.”  A few by the holding cells applaud; Felix looks rather pleased with himself.  He’s grinning nastily, leering at Clarke with a stench of aggressive Alpha that makes her want to vomit.  All in all, it doesn’t look like a safe situation to be in, and Clarke would definitely be better off if she were to bolt for the end of the hallway, but suddenly, she’s had it.  Whether it’s the language, the relentless disparaging commentary, or the insinuation about Lexa, Clarke finally snaps.  
  
Within two strides, she’s up in Felix’s face with eyes sparking with fury.  
  
“Finn was a murderer,” she spits harshly, and by the way his cheek twitches, she gathers that some has landed on his face.  “He committed a crime that had to see justice in order for an alliance to be made so that _your_ Council can rescue _your_ people inside that mountain.  If I didn’t make that decision, you would’ve gone to war and been annihilated, and Alphas like _you_ are _exactly_ the reason that there are messes like this for me to clean up in the first place!  _You_ are the problem; you attack people without reason and judge them without any basis in fact, and then I have to come _execute_ people in order to keep your pitiful, ungrateful asses alive because you _Alphas_ don’t stop to think about the consequences!”  Their noses are inches away from one another by the time that she’s done.  Clarke is breathing heavily, the rank scent of angry Alpha filling her nose, but she doesn’t waver in the stench of it.  Defiantly, she raises her chin higher, daring him to counter her words.  
  
 _Crack._  
  
The sound registers before the feeling of her head snapping to the side.  Clarke blinks.  Her cheek is burning; immediately, her instinct is to bring her hand up to cradle it, but her fists are so tight at her sides that she’s not sure she could unclench them if she tried.    
  
 _“Stupid_ Omega,” Felix hisses.  His eyes are wide now with a different, darker kind of anger; his last tether to diplomacy seems to have been broken by Clarke’s attack on his status.  “How dare you speak to an Alpha with such disrespect!”  His tone is low and dangerous, and hearing it, Clarke feels the first prickle of fear at the back of her neck.  Too late, it occurs to her to run, but Felix has her pinned; if she tries to move away, he’ll have her by the wrist in a second.  “You don’t even kneel to an Alpha when one speaks to you.  But I bet you can’t keep that up; I think it’s time we all saw what you look like on your knees.”    
  
When it hits her, the wave of pheromones nearly makes Clarke double over and vomit.  With a great effort, she refrains from bowing her head.  The stench is thick and aggressive, putrid in a way that makes her entire body feel like it’s crawling in her skin.  Her blood heats, clawing at her veins to escape them, rushing faster as the scent fills her throat and her lungs constrict.  Another wave and the feeling intensifies, and suddenly Clarke is gasping for breath, choking on the thickened air as her stomach crawls and her body shakes with the effort not to give in, but it’s growing stronger, and her legs are beginning to weaken —  
  
And then there is air again, still fierce but sweet and breathable.  Clarke’s body begins to drop with blacked-out eyes as her knees fold, but an arm wends around her waist before she can fully collapse.  Dimly, through her tunnel vision, she sees Felix and the others at the holding cells dropping to their knees as the air is rent with a blast of pheromones that Clarke can sense, but that seem, oddly, not to touch her at all.  Stunned, she follows the arm supporting her weight up to the shoulder and higher, to see not Anya, but Lexa, glaring daggers at all in attendance and exuding an aura so powerful Clarke is surprised to not see all in attendance prone on the floor.    
  
“Go.”  Her voice is dangerously quiet when she speaks; low though it is, it catches every ear in the room.  “I am not so childish as to engage in some lowly Alpha pissing contest, so I will let you live without contest, but you will not force an Omega’s submission again.  Go.  Now, before I change my mind.”  There is no need for her to repeat herself; they have all fled before she has even finished speaking, Felix disappearing down the corridor at the head of the pack.  
  
Immediately, once they’re gone, Lexa lets up on the pheromones she’s emitting.  She leaves her arm in place for a moment, supporting Clarke’s uneasy legs.  The moment that the Omega can stand on her own, she releases her, beckoning to Clarke with a jerk of the head and steely eyes.  
  
“Come.  I’m taking you to your Alpha.”  She has already begun walking before Clarke can open her mouth, so that Clarke is forced to jog after her to keep up.  The possessive pronoun registers briefly, sounding less odd from Lexa’s mouth than it probably should.  If it were anyone else, Clarke would argue, but this is Heda; Clarke isn’t stupid.    
  
Neither, though, does she want to do as Lexa says.  
  
“Please don’t.”  A little weakened by the effects of the pheromone blast she just received, she says it without much force, but it’s all it takes to bring Lexa to a halt.  After Felix’s blatant disrespect, the immediate acquiescence to her request is almost dizzying.    
  
She falters a little, though, at the sight of Lexa’s expectantly raised eyebrow.    
  
“I mean — _mochof,_ Heda, for stopping them, but . . . don’t tell Anya, _beja.”_ Clarke almost changes her mind about being relieved by Lexa’s presence when she’s met with Lexa’s stony stare.  
  
“Anya would want to know — ”  
  
“But I don’t _want_ her to know.”  Too late, Clarke realizes who she’s interrupted.  At the cool look she receives, she bows her head contritely.  “My apologies, Heda.  I only meant . . . I know Anya will worry.  She’ll be angry, and she’s so worried about everyone in the mountain already, and I’m _fine_.  I don’t want to give her anything more to be upset about.”  Something tells Clarke that she’s not explaining herself as well as she could, but even she’s not quite sure what she means.  Lack of sleep and the stress of the recent confrontation have tired her.  She feels a little like her head is stuffed with cotton fluff.    
  
She doesn’t know how, after over a week of denying it even to herself, she’s discussing this so openly with Lexa, but Clarke doesn’t really see her way clear to debating about it.  Benevolent though she might be, Lexa possesses an air about her that suggests it would be downright dangerous to argue.  She can only be grateful, now, that Lexa has chosen her as someone worthy of protection rather than as an enemy.  Her scent is powerful; she is clearly the strongest Alpha around — although, oddly, Clarke hardly seems to notice her scent.   
  
To her surprise, Lexa nods shortly.    
  
“Very well,” she agrees brusquely.  “I will say nothing to Anya, so long as you reassure me that you are all right.  However, if such an incident is to occur again, or if you are to feel its effects in a capacity that makes you ill, I will not hesitate to inform her of what happened.”  When Clarke nods, she studies her hard for a minute, eyes narrowed with vague suspicion.  After a few moments, though, her gaze softens a little.  “I understand wanting to keep Anya’s anxiety to a minimum,” she continues in a softer tone.  “She worries too much about things for which she has little responsibility; I have often said it myself.  But you should know, Klark, that she will worry about you whether you like it or not.  Anya will always protect the things she cares about, and if I have learned anything from her in fifteen years of life, it is that the more she worries, the more she cares.  She will worry about you whether you are safe or not.  You couldn’t stop her if you tried.”    
  
With that, the Commander turns on her heel, and before Clarke can say another word, she’s around the corner and out of sight.  
  
Left alone in the dark hallway, Clarke feels exhaustion come upon her in a rush.  She was already tired before the argument with Felix, and the attempt at forcing her submission has shaken her.  The last day or so, in fact, has had her feeling strangely off.  On shaky legs, Clarke leans against the wall and pressing her forehead against her hand to regain her balance.  Suddenly, she finds that she feels distinctly woozy.  The air inside the Ark’s metal walls is hot, but her skin feels strangely cold, and cramps and shivers wrack her body.  She feels weak and uncomfortable and oddly like burrowing into something like the little baby fox that she and Monty found one day near the drop ship.    
  
It’s not yet afternoon, but a heavy sort of exhaustion is steeling over Clarke’s body the longer she remains on her feet.  Maybe taking a nap will help her body reset itself.  Likely she’s only suffering a lack of sleep plus a little dizziness after Felix’s attack, but suddenly, she can scarcely remain on her feet.  It’s all she can do to stumble back to her quarters, and by the time she arrives, the feeling has worsened so greatly that she can hardly see through double vision.  Head spinning, body tense with achiness, Clarke collapses on her bunk.  
  
The minute her head hits her pillow, the delirium closes over her, and everything goes dark. 

* * *

 

In all her life, Anya has never been such a helpless mess.  
  
The effect is embarrassing.  In the past week, she’s gone from a hardened warrior to a lovestruck pup with hardly an ounce of warning.  It’s humiliating.  Anya has been alone for seven summers, and never once in that time has she been so affected by an Omega’s presence.  Her control is better than this, but she finds that with Clarke, she simply can’t help falling to pieces.  Clarke has been all over her, concerned, loving, tender; an unmated Omega, fawning over her, treating her in ways that only a bonded mate would.  She’s a wreck and doesn’t know how to explain herself to Lexa.    
  
Apparently she doesn’t have to, if the amused looks her _heda_ has been shooting her are anything to go by.    
  
Whether she has spoken the words aloud or not, Anya is finding the truth harder and harder to ignore.  Two weeks ago, when she and Clarke met each other on a bridge and failed to secure a truce, the only thing on her mind was revenge for the deaths of the villagers killed by the Hundred’s flares.  Now, so few days later, the only thing she can think of is how to stop herself from pulling Clarke into her arms and never letting her go.  She can’t explain it; however much she loved her first mate — and she _did_ love them — Anya has never felt a pull like this.  Never in her life has someone’s mere presence uprooted her so thoroughly.    
  
It has been a mere ten days since Clarke found her in the room of cages and chose to rescue her, but Anya’s instincts don’t lie: she could so easily fall for this Omega.    
  
If she’s completely honest with herself, she already has.  
  
It feels like an utter betrayal by her heart, as though her spirit has been hijacked and all her senses have left her body.  Anya has tried, but there is nothing, _nothing,_ that she can do to stop this.  She won’t act upon it, not until she is certain that Clarke feels the same way.  Anya won’t risk what might happen if Clarke were to not return her feelings.  But with every passing day, the draw she feels is growing harder and harder to resist.    
  
It is even fiercer here, among the people that Clarke used to call her own.  They are citizens that the Omega has fought for, for which she has risked her life and livelihood even after they imprisoned her and sent her to the ground to die.  Clarke has sacrificed more for them than they deserve, and they give so little in return.  Her own people treat her with nothing but blatant disrespect, neglect, and often cruelty.  It fills Anya with fury to watch it.    
  
It might be her imagination, but she swears that the treatment the Omega receives at the hands of the Skaikru is even beginning to take a physical toll.  Since Clarke has begun sleeping in Camp Jaha to avoid a confrontation with her mother, the Omega has seemed tired.  Anya thinks Clarke seems a little thinner too, and perhaps little wearier, but attributes that to the likelihood that the Omega is mourning the loss of her friend.  If their current political state weren’t so fragile, and if there were no war to fight, Anya would do her utmost to remove Clarke from the situation and bring her among the Trikru to heal.    
  
Being bound by the fragile state of the alliance not to interfere, however, she resolves to content herself with providing the Omega with the best care possible whenever she can.  This waiting period of Lincoln’s absence has given them more time to spend together than ever before.  Whenever Clarke is near, Anya ensures that there is food available.  Secretly, she has also enlisted Jean, who is a good with fabrics, to make the Omega a new coat for when the weather grows colder.  Despite her efforts, though, Anya feels unsettled.  She cannot shake the instinctive feeling that something is wrong.    
  
As it turns out, her instincts are right.  
  
Octavia bursts into the supply tent in the early afternoon with her braids undone and her hastily buttoned cloak askew.  Lexa, who is absorbed in her meditation, merely raises an irritated eyebrow with her eyes still shut, but Anya startles.  Taking in Octavia’s disheveled appearance, she straightens up from the knives she is sorting with a sinking feeling in her stomach.   
  
“You’d better come quickly,” Octavia says grimly.  “It’s Clarke.”  
  
As they stride briskly into the Skaikru compound, none of the guards make any move to stop them.  No doubt they have orders not to aggravate the Trikru too much, and it’s likely that they scent that Anya means business and is not to be trifled with.  Accompanied by Octavia and Callum, she marches purposefully through the gates and past the horse paddock.  She’s almost entered the Ark when it occurs to her that she doesn’t know the way to Clarke’s quarters.  She stands aside, gesturing brusquely to Octavia, who has been having to jog to keep up, to take the front.  With the younger Alpha leading them through the maze of metal corridors, it only takes a minute to reach the bay of bunk rooms in the middle of the station.  
  
Abby is outside the door, speaking urgently to a thin-faced young man that Anya remembers from the infirmary — Jackson, she thinks he is called.  At the sight of the Trikru, Abby switches into immediate defensive mode.  Straightening her shoulders, she opens her mouth, but Anya doesn’t give her a chance to speak.  She shoulders past Abby roughly, ignoring the worried look on Jackson’s face, and pushes her way into the bunk room.  
  
The scent of distressed Omega hits her immediately upon entry.  It curls in Anya’s stomach, stirring both nausea and an instantaneous, desperate need to do whatever she can to make it stop.  The room is small, hardly larger than a closet, furnished only by the metal bunk fastened to the wall.  Clarke is curled on the mattress beneath a thin makeshift blanket, shaking with fever.    
  
One look tells Anya all she needs to know.    
  
Clarke is murmuring her name in a dazed fever dream-like state; behind her, Anya can hear Abby protesting her presence, but she pays the woman no mind as she approaches the tiny bunk.  She has room in her heart only for concern and anger for her Omega, crouching down to brush a hand through golden hair.  Clarke’s forehead is clammy with cold sweat, her hair sticking to her temples as she shivers beneath the thin covers.    
  
Anya has seen all she needs to.  Without further hesitation, she stoops low and hefts Clarke into her arms.  Standing up takes worryingly little effort; limp in her hold, Clarke seems to weigh almost nothing.  However, it is immediately apparent that the action was the right one; the moment Clarke is in her arms, the Omega seems to relax.  Though she continues to shake uncontrollably, she leans her head against Anya’s shoulder with a little sigh; almost involuntarily, it seems, one hand creeps up to grasp tightly at the collar of the Alpha’s shirt.  A moment later, Clarke’s eyes flutter half-open to reveal unfocused, glassy sapphire.  
  
 _“You’re here . . .”_ The murmur is so weak that Anya strains to catch it.  Clarke’s lips barely move with the words; to utter them appears to take all the remaining energy she possesses, for as soon as they have left her lips, her eyes flutter closed again and she falls still.    
  
Anya’s lips find sun-golden hair entirely of their own accord.  Dimly, she is aware of other people crowded in the doorway watching, but she can’t find it in her to give a damn.    
  
“I am here, _strikon,”_ she exhales the soothing murmur shakily into blonde hair.  “I have you.  We are going to get you out of here.”    
  
 _“Where_ are you taking her?”  For a brief moment, Anya allows her eyes to close in frustration.  Turning around is awkward in the small space; Clarke’s legs are too much in the way to allow for the movement to be graceful.  After a false try, Anya concedes and backs out, forced to duck her head to avoid hitting it on the low doorframe.    
  
When she straightens up, Abby is staring at her with her jaw set.    
  
“My daughter is sick,” she states firmly.  “I won’t have you carting her off — ”  
  
“What you will or will not have is of no consequence to me,” Anya cuts her off harshly.  The time for pleasantries has passed.  She has endured Abby’s negligence since the day of their first meeting, but her tolerance ends now.  She will put up with rudeness directed at herself, but now that Clarke’s wellbeing has entered the picture, Anya’s patience has come to an end.  “It is enough that I will refrain from asking the Commander to penalize such astonishing neglect.  For Clarke’s sake, I will not ask to see you punished, but I cannot, and will not, leave her in your care when she is so seriously ill and you people are so clearly incompetent.”  For the first time, Abby’s expression changes from one of defiance to one of concern.    
  
“You know what’s wrong with her?” she questions immediately, and her eyebrows are knitted in anxiety.  “We noticed she was sick an hour ago, but nothing I’ve done seems to help.”    
  
“Of course it does not help,” Anya snarls.  Though it’s better than an outright argument, Abby’s fear at her own ineptitude does nothing to stir her sympathy.  She understands that the woman is a doctor who is likely accustomed to dealing with her own daughter’s illnesses, but this is not the time for forgiveness.  Mother or no, this behavior will not stand.  “This is full-blown Omega fever!” Anya seethes.  “It is brought on by a lack of nourishment, worsened by continued mistreatment and the shock of Alpha pheromones meant to force submission.  We see it during hard winters when resources are few, or when Alphas have abused the Omegas in their care.  Her body recognizes its natural rhythms and is trying to go into heat but is unable to sustain it.  Her nervous system is suffering.  Do you mean to tell me that _none of you_ recognized the symptoms?”  Though her concern is still apparent, Abby is irate.  
  
“We didn’t have this on the Ark!” she exclaims defensively.  “Everyone was on suppressants, and it’s been decades since anyone caught a dangerous virus.  All of the old illnesses died out with herd immunity.”    
  
“What you did or did not have on your Ark is none of my concern!” Anya snaps harshly.  In her arms, Clarke flinches a little closer at the tone.  Feeling the slight spasm, she makes a concerted effort to ease her tone for the Omega’s sake.  “This is precisely the reason why we fought the war against Azgeda for so many winters.  Their treatment of their Omegas was abysmal, so much so that they lost them all before Heda was able to intervene.  I know that you had ways of surviving in the sky, but you are not among the stars anymore, Abi Griffin.  Your old ways will not stand on the ground.”  Abby’s eyes flash.  
  
“I am a doctor!  I will tend to my own daughter!”  The raised voices are beginning to affect Clarke, who is now burrowing deeper into Anya’s shirt in an effort to escape the noise.   
  
“She does not need a doctor!” Anya hisses under her breath, aware of the need to remain calmer for the Omega’s sake.  “She needs nourishment and sleep and physical contact that you cannot provide.  She will recover in mere hours with attentiveness and an Alpha’s touch.  I understand that your life was different among the stars, but here on the ground, you will have to become accustomed to the ways of nature.  Omegas need more food than the rest of your people.  They need _attention._ You will learn this, or you will lose them.  They will die, or be taken from you.  Neglect of an Omega is punishable by death by Kongeda law; if you want to live, you will learn to take better care of your people.”  Jaw squarely set, Abby starts to protest, but just then, Clarke lets out an incoherent mumble into Anya’s hair.    
  
 _“Anya . . .”_ They all grow quiet for a moment, but Clarke makes no other sound except a fitful whimper or two, and then settles back down once again.  After a beat, Anya looks up, glaring harshly at Abby once again.  Abby, though, beats her to it.  
  
 _“I_ am an Alpha!” she hisses, under her breath so as not to disturb Clarke further.  “I can care for her!”  Anya shoots her a disparaging look.  Already, in her arms, Clarke’s frantic heart rate has slowed.    
  
“You are her mother,” Anya says at last with an air of definitive finality.  “You are not the Alpha that she needs.”

* * *

 

When they storm back into camp with Octavia at the lead, the racket the young Alpha makes calling for Indra rouses Lexa from her meditation.  Heda emerges from her tent to be greeted with the sight of Anya marching over the top of the hill with a half-conscious Clarke in her arms, flanked by an upset-looking Callum, Octavia brandishing her empty sword hand in the air and ranting in surprisingly fluent Trigedasleng.    
  
 _“Omega-hating, bottom-feeding, incompetent foolish sexist assholes!”_ The younger Alpha spits in the dirt and wipes her mouth aggressively on her sleeve in disgust.  _“Arrogant branwadas — grounder barbarians my_ ass; _I’ll show them barbarianism — ”_ Lexa’s lips twitch at the stream of furious insults spewing from the girl’s lips.  Rolling her eyes, Indra moves forward to quell her seken’s fury.  When the young warrior has been led off to the training field to vent her aggression appropriately, Anya briskly makes her intentions known.  
  
“I need a plate of food, now; fruits especially.”  She directs the words at Callum, who nods and sets off immediately for the supply tent.  “And tea!” she hollers at his retreating back.  Hefting Clarke higher in her arms to adjust her weight, she turns to Lexa with a pitiful look.  
  
“Heda, I apologize, but I need to — may I — ”  
  
“Indra will see to your tasks,” Lexa grants her frantic general with a dismissive wave of her hand.  “You have more important duties to attend to.”  Anya’s relief is visible on her face.    
  
 _“Mochof,_ Heda,” she breathes out.  She sounds a little out of breath, likely from a combination of anxiety and the effort of carrying a fully grown adult up a steep hill.  Clarke chooses that moment to let out a muffled whimper; glancing down, Anya’s face contorts with unconcealed distress.  “Once she is better, Heda . . .”    
  
“We will talk,” Lexa supplies smoothly.  “Rest assured that the situation will be addressed, but for now, take the _skai goufa_ to the healer’s tent and tend to her.  Omega fever is nothing to trifle with.”  A quick nod is Anya’s response, and then the general is hurrying off in the direction of the healer’s tent, her Omega cradled in her arms.  Once she is gone, Lexa turns to Jean with her lips set in a thin line.  “Speak to Okteivia and make out a list of all Skaikru Omegas including those within the mountain,” she instructs grimly.  “Then send an emissary to Floukru and inform Luna that I am calling on the promise she made to me four summers ago when Azgeda joined us as the twelfth clan.  We are adding another condition to this peace treaty.” 

* * *

 

True to Anya’s word, Clarke improves with a rapidity that would have astounded the doctors on the Ark.  Night has only recently fallen when her delirium settles back into consciousness.  Nevertheless, her memories of the past seven hours are hazy at best.  She remembers stumbling back to her bunk in a fevered daze, collapsing on the mattress, and waking briefly to Anya’s presence and then that’s where her certainty ends.  The hours before Anya’s arrival were torturous; as sick as she felt before she arrived back in her bunk room, the time spent there alone was even worse.    
  
Clarke remembers vividly the feeling of her blood boiling hot in her veins, seeming to scald her from the inside while at the same time the air around her wracked her with chilled shivers.  Her lungs tightened, her body ached, and though she couldn’t fall asleep, she couldn’t seem to stay awake either.  She has a vague idea that she may have thrown up once or twice.  Most intense of all, though, was the feeling of emptiness, soul-deep and aching.  It was a deep pit in her heart that screamed to be filled, rendering her incapable of movement or speech or conscious thought.  
  
Then Anya came, and while the chills and fever lingered, the emptiness left as quickly as it came, drowned by the sweet scent and gentle touch of the Alpha who took her so tenderly in her arms.  
  
It seemed incredible, but the moment she was enveloped in Anya’s embrace, Clarke felt her body’s tension ease.  Her frantic heart rate slowed, her lungs were flooded with air as soon as she was held against the Alpha’s body.  Anya’s scent in her nose was powerful, and Clarke couldn’t help nuzzling in as she was carried, pressing her lips to the hot crook of a delicate neck where Anya’s pulse beat steadily, reassuring.    
  
She wakes a little after dusk and is instantly aware of three things.  For one, they’re in the healer’s tent, and she has no memory of getting there; no memory, in fact, of anything beyond being lifted into Anya’s arms.  Two, they’re lying down, presumably on the pallet made up in the corner that Anya has been sleeping on, and three, but for their bindings, both of them are naked.    
  
She is sprawled out on Anya’s chest; her head is tucked into the crook of the latter’s neck, one hand grazing the side of the Alpha’s ribs, and the other caught between their bodies, resting over her heart.  Anya’s skin is warm and damp with the slightest layer of sweat.  Her scent is heavy where Clarke is nosing into her hair, and upon waking, still caught in a dull haze, the Omega sleepily nuzzles at the scent gland behind her ear.    
  
Still a little fuzzy-brained with sleep, feeling safe in the Alpha’s hold, Clarke lets her fluttering eyes wander.    
  
In all of their time together, in all the times that they have unwittingly been half-clothed in each others’ presence, this is the first time that Clarke has really allowed herself to _look_ at Anya.  There have always been other eyes nearby, or some greater reason for their nudity that distracts her from the simple fact of it.  Now, she finds that there are all sorts of things she has never noticed before.  
  
The body beneath hers is soft but muscular; pressed so close, its dormant power has an almost tangible buzz beneath sun-kissed skin.  Clarke knew this before from brief glimpses caught in the river, but this is the first time she has been allowed the luxury of truly _feeling_ it.  Anya’s stomach is soft beneath her own, rising and falling gently with the Alpha’s steady breathing.  There are curving lines along slim shoulders where the sun has tanned her; the strokes of sunned and lighter tan bring to mind tank top straps, and Clarke’s attention is momentarily arrested by the thought of what Anya would look like in such a state of dress.    
  
There is a scar along Anya’s collarbone.  It’s faded, older than the marks left by Mount Weather, Tristan’s arrows, and Clarke’s own hands.  There’s another one further down her ribs, and a smattering of freckles on the inside of her arm.  Her ribs are warm; where Clarke’s hand is splayed, she can feel them move with Anya’s every breath.  Unthinkingly, her hand begins to wander.  Fingers skating across smooth skin, she traces the lines of Anya’s ribs, the curve of her waist, up to the base of the Alpha’s bindings.  There, she allows her hand to curl, palm cupping across the base of the soft fabric, fingertips dipping ever-so-slightly beneath the edge to brush the swell of her breast.   
  
At the light touch, the body beneath Clarke stifles a sharp inhale, and the quick jolt is what serves to catapult her fully into consciousness.  Her eyes flick upward with a start, and her breath catches to find Anya gazing directly at her.  There is amusement evident in the Alpha’s eyes, besides an edge of intensity.  They’re dark, filled with a tiny hint of a smirk, but also with something that looks a lot like longing.  Clarke might be imagining it, but she swears the Alpha’s lips tremble for the briefest of moments when their eyes meet.  
  
“I am glad to see you feeling better.”  The low murmur travels between their bodies up through Clarke’s chest.  “You were burning with fever for many hours.”  Transfixed by the intensity of her stare, Clarke swallows hard.  
  
“How did you know?” she whispers.  In the air between them, the question sounds somehow sacred.  Clarke isn’t sure whether she’s asking how Anya knew how to find her, how she knew what was wrong, or how she knew how to help her.  Maybe all three.    
  
Beneath her, Anya shrugs, the movement lifting Clarke a little as her shoulder twitches.  
  
“I had a feeling,” she says offhandedly.  “Then Okteivia came and told us you were sick, and I knew you needed m — help.”  Anya’s cheeks burn a little as she hastily corrects herself, but Clarke would have noticed it even without the telltale blush.  Her first instinct is to tease, but considering their position, she decides that half-naked on top of each other isn’t the best opportunity.

Maybe it is, but not _now._  
  
“And I’m better, just like that?”  Clarke isn’t trying to be obtuse; the question stems from genuine confusion.  Several hours ago, she was lying in her bunk so ill she was hallucinating, and now she appears to be perfectly recovered.  The only variable that has changed in the past few hours is Anya’s presence, and in that, Clarke suspects, lies the answer.  
  
“I would not recommend you run to the mountain and back just yet, but for all intents and purposes, yes, I suppose.  You are better,” Anya decides, and now Clarke’s confusion has only grown.  She’s about to press further when Anya continues  “Food is important, though,” the Alpha adds.  “You were very weak from hunger when I brought you back here.  And dehydrated, too.  Here — stay still.”  Movement ensues before the instruction has settled enough for Clarke to absorb it, so she flails a little when Anya curls her hands around her back and rolls her to the side.  Her jolting movements throw them off a little, so that as Anya rolls them over she loses her balance and continues the motion from on their sides.  Having fully switched positions, their movement ceases, and suddenly, Clarke is finding herself quite incapable of speech.  
  
Anya is leaning over her, propped up on her forearms so as not to crush the Omega beneath her.  As a result, Clarke’s lungs aren’t at all constricted, but she finds that she’s having great difficulty breathing, regardless.  Anya is hovering over her, the full length of their bodies pressed lightly together, and Clarke can hardly hear for the blood rushing in her ears.  There is a thigh between her legs, weighty and grounding; a shift in their bodies adds a measure of pressure, and suddenly, it’s all Clarke can do not to arch as unexpected heat blazes through her.  Anya is on top of her, warm and heavy and sturdy; a powerful Alpha, sheltering her beneath her, safe and protected, and Anya’s so warm . . .  
  
The scent of Clarke’s arousal hits them at the same time, and when she registers it, Anya’s eyes go wide.  She glances down at Clarke, first at her face, and then down to where her thigh presses between the Omega’s legs.  There is heat there; Clarke knows that she can feel it.  She watches as Anya’s cheeks go red at the recognition of what has occurred.  Clarke is frozen in horror and embarrassment.    
  
She doesn’t dare to move.  If she does, they will be pressed even tighter together.  She won’t do it, won’t dare cause them more embarrassment.  A tiny, traitorous part of her, though, has taken up residence at the front of her brain, wondering what it would be like to give in.  What it would be like if Clarke were to _move;_ one little roll of the hips, and then —  
  
“Tea!”  The exclamation takes Clarke so by surprise that she is jolted out of her rogue fantasies.  Disoriented, she blinks up at Anya in complete bewilderment.  
  
“What?”  In looking up, she finds that Anya is staring fixedly at a point somewhere above their heads.    
  
“Hydration!” Anya declares.  “I have some — here — ” And then she’s reaching for something over Clarke’s head, supporting her weight briefly with one arm before she returns grasping a cup in her other hand.  She sets it down beside the pallet, and then before Clarke can protest, she’s wrapping her hands around Clarke’s waist and easing them both up into a sitting position.  It takes a little maneuvering, but in a moment they’re settled, Clarke half-upright, half in Anya’s lap with the Alpha’s arm at her back to support her.  Clarke can only watch, unable to organize her mind into coherent speech, as Anya presses the cup into her hands and coaxes her into taking a sip of the warm tea.    
  
Their eyes meet over the rim of the mug, and suddenly, it’s all Clarke can do to swallow without choking.  The awkwardness of the previous moment has passed, only to be replaced by the maddening tension that Clarke is starting to accept as just another facet of their interactions.    
  
Anya’s eyes are filled with a thousand different thoughts, and Clarke would give anything to know just a single one of them.  Whatever the complicated, dizzying mess of the past week has been, something has been building.  It has grown, simmering and gathering strength, since the moment Clarke unlocked that cage in Mount Weather, and now, something feels like they’re close to hitting the turning point.    
  
Her scattered feelings must show in her eyes, for as she eases the cup away from her lips, Anya’s gaze has turned to one of concern.  
  
“Are you all right, _strikon?”_ Anya sounds genuinely worried, and Clarke is reminded of her earlier conversation with Lexa.  The memory almost makes her want to laugh at herself.  So much for not making Anya worry.  
  
“What was that?” she questions instead of the hundreds of other responses crowding behind her lips.  She’s referring to her illness, figuring that Anya will either pick up on her wavelength and answer accordingly, or else give her an accidental response to one of the other, more secret questions that Clarke is burning to ask.    
  
“They have not treated you well,” Anya says after a moment of hesitance.  “Skaikru does not understand that Omegas need a certain level of care, and furthermore that they cannot sustain mistreatment without displaying physical signs.  You will be all right now.”  Her eyes are focused on the cup, but Clarke doesn’t break her gaze away.  She thinks she is beginning to understand.    
  
“Because I’m with you.”  It’s half a question, half not.  Anya’s eyes snap back over to hers, and they are dark, but uncertain.  
  
“Because you are with me,” she confirms softly after a moment.  “More importantly, because you are not among them.  I know you wished to keep the peace by spending your nights in the Skaikru compound, Klark, but I do not think it wise for that to continue.”  Clarke lets out a tiny huff that’s almost amused.  
  
“Believe me,” she assures her, “I’m not raring to have a bout like that again.  God, that was awful.  The fever, and the nausea, but that _empty_ feeling was the worst.  I don’t ever want to feel like that again if I can help it.”  Anya seems to twitch a little at that last bit.  Something odd passes through her eyes, though when she speaks, her voice is as calm as it ever is.  
  
“I do not want you to, either,” she says quietly.  Clarke thinks she must be imagining the way the Alpha’s fingers flex every so slightly against her back, as though itching to draw her closer than she already is.  
  
Then again, if she’s honest, she knows it’s not her imagination at all.

* * *

 

There are few occasions on which Anya has seen Lexa so irate.  The young commander is so careful, always, to arrest any potential emotions before they can be displayed.  Aside from the most obvious instance, the only moments that come to Anya’s mind are involving the treatment of Omegas.  It seems, of all things, to be the one topic regarding which Lexa simply can’t manage to control her reactions.  More likely, she doesn’t want to; Anya is of no doubt that her former _seken_ is perfectly capable of controlling herself when need be.  The fact that she isn’t suggests that this is an issue serious enough to warrant severe action.  
  
“You know this behavior will not stand.”  She’s been pacing the war tent for the entirety of the ten minutes that have elapsed since Anya’s arrival.  It’s a good indicator of how unsettled she is, because not only is she pacing, but she has failed twice now to note the root that’s sticking up through the grass and has tripped on both occasions.  If Anya weren’t privy to the cause of her unrest, she would think that a tragedy of monumental proportions had occurred.    
  
“We have done all we can for now,” Gustus speaks up from the corner.  A glance at him tells Anya that he, too, is watching Heda with an expression similar to one waiting for a landmine to explode.  “The messenger you sent yesterday will inform Luna of her part, and once the mountain has been defeated, we can negotiate terms for Skaikru’s acceptance into the Kongeda.  There is nothing else that we can do for the time being without provoking Skaikru and potentially losing the alliance.”  It’s times like these that Anya is glad they have Gustus.  The man is usually so quiet, preferring to guard Lexa with silent pride, that she often forgets that he is present and listening to every tactical conversation they have.    
  
Lexa halts her pacing.  
  
“Tell me, Callum,” she addresses the younger guard currently polishing a rack of daggers.  “How many Omegas do Skaikru have?”  Callum lays down a knife, but keeps a white-knuckled grip on the polishing rag.  
  
“Fifty-eight,” he answers her carefully.  The way he’s eyeing Lexa leaves Anya with no doubt that all of them currently share the same wariness.  “Eleven are in the mountain with thirty-five Alphas and Betas.  The rest are here in the Skaikru encampment.”    
  
“Except for one,” Gustus points out; Callum shoots him a side-eyed glance.  
  
“One more, then,” he acknowledges.  “I wasn’t counting those who have already defected.  The Ambassador makes fifty-nine.”  Privately, Anya wonders how Clarke would take to being referred to with such an official title by one of Lexa’s personal guards.  In the past few days, she has noticed something of a camaraderie being built between the Omega and the four hulking, slightly awkward Beta men.  She likens it to a playful sibling rivalry with the way they banter and tussle.  Seeing Clarke make friends among her own people makes her heart feel strangely light.  So, too, does the Omega’s friendship with Octavia, who alongside her brother appears to be one of the only two salvageable Alphas among the newcomers.  They’re off somewhere eating lunch since Clarke woke up this morning sufficiently recovered.  When Lexa summoned Anya to the war tent, she left only under the stipulation that the younger Alpha, being trustworthy and already mated, watch over Clarke’s wellbeing.    
  
“And other than the eleven in the mountain, how many of those fifty-nine are currently at risk?”  Lexa’s inquiry draws Anya back out of her thoughts.  She must have blinked a little to reorient herself, for out of the corner of her eye, she sees Gustus smirking a little.  No doubt he noticed the way she tuned out at the mention of Clarke.  Anya pretends not to notice.  
  
“Three, Heda,” Callum says slowly.  “The Ambassador, that one called Murfi we captured with the _ripa,_ and the mechanic.  The one with the injured leg.”    
  
“Reivon,” Anya supplies a little absentmindedly.  She remembers from the conversation Clarke had with Octavia the morning of the execution.    
  
“Reivon,” Lexa agrees.  “Klark, and Murfi; but why only those three?  Gustus?”  A little wearily, Gustus rubs his beard in contemplation.    
  
“It is simple to me, Heda.  Time,” he explains with a shrug when Lexa only stares at him expectantly.  “It makes sense that those three are the only ones to be feeling the effects of their mistreatment because they have been here longer.  The rest of Skaikru only arrived a few days ago; their bodies won’t yet be acclimated to the ground, so they won’t be showing the signs.”  Having stopped her pacing, Lexa studies him thoughtfully.    
  
“But what is keeping them from feeling it in the first place?” she questions, and in her curiosity, the query comes out a little sharp.  She appears to notice, for she continues in a slightly smoother tone, “Why hadn’t every Skaikru Omega already fallen ill years ago if this is how they have been treated all their lives?”    
  
“Medication.”  It is Indra who grunts it from the corner.  She has been reclining on a stack of furs are morning, and when Anya showed up earlier, muttered an explanation about Octavia having worn her out with her antics.  “Okteivia has told me that Skaikru drugged their Alphas and Omegas in the sky to keep them from mating outside of monitored bonds.  Once they reached the ground, the medicine wore off.  Many of them never experienced a heat before coming here.  Their bodies have been kept from expressing their designations, so they did not feel the full effects of their mistreatment until now.”  It’s a short, succinct summary that seems nowhere near adequate to deliver the degree of fury it incites.    
  
The expressions of outrage throughout the tent are loud enough that Anya wonders that the Skaikru don’t come running.  Jean, Callum, and their Beta compatriots look disgusted.  Gustus wears an expression appropriate to one who has been slapped, and Lexa has fallen completely still where she stands.  Anya feels a rising wave of nausea.  The logic of it is something she understands — the Skaikru had nowhere near enough resources on their Ark to sustain life if everyone went about mating as they pleased — but the thought is difficult to digest nonetheless.  Suppress heats and ruts!  The idea is uncomfortable; disturbingly wrong.    
  
“That’s it,” Lexa snaps, and her snarl brings them all to attention.  “I have heard all I care to today of this _abysmal_ negligence.  In several suns we shall be in Tondisi, and I will speak to the Kongeda ambassadors about the appropriate action; in any case, there is little to be done until Luna arrives.  You may all take your leave.”  She doesn’t need to tell them twice.  Callum drops his rag and is out the tent flap before Lexa can utter another word.  Jean and the other two guards follow, muttering dark threats about the Skaikru as they stomp off in the direction of their tents.  Gustus follows to take up position as guard outside.  Indra is the last one out, taking a little longer as she heaves herself with effort from her pile of furs and exits with a grumble and a clap on Anya’s shoulder as she passes by.  
  
Once they are gone, Anya is left alone with Lexa, watching the way her seken’s body sags into the weight of everything she has been suppressing all evening long.  Lexa looks tired, she notices, taking time for the first time in several days to assess the state of her oldest friend.  There are dark circles beneath her eyes that warpaint doesn’t quite disguise, and her forehead looks uncomfortably pinched.    
  
Anya knows this can’t be easy for her.  The progression of this continuous flood of information about the Skaikru has been exhausting for all of them, but its impact on Lexa is especially great.  She will not show it in front of the others, but Anya can see it nonetheless.  With the memories that are being drudged up every day with the re-hashing of this conversation, she’s surprised that Lexa is still standing at all.  Where she shows it or not, the constant reminders have to be taking their toll.  
  
“I will fix this for you, Anya.”  At her quiet promise, Anya raises her gaze to find Lexa watching her with tired eyes.  There is something in her expression that makes her look immeasurably old, ancient, even.  Not for the first time in her life, Anya wonders how it is that this warlord with the weight of humanity on her shoulders has scarcely seen two decades of life.    
  
“Heda?”  In moments like these, Anya can’t call her Lexa.  She taught this woman how to dress herself, but some days, the name simply won’t slip past her lips.  They refuse to form the syllables, as though somehow it is sacrilege to refer to her with anything other than the title she never wanted to bear.  As if by not using it, somehow, Anya is disrespecting the sacrifice that she has made, abdicating love and happiness for the sake of a nation.  
  
“We will fight this war,” Lexa says firmly, “and then we will get your Klark healthy.  An Omega should be safe and comfortable and have room to flourish.  We will keep her warm and fed, and then her heats will return to her when her body is strong.”  Anya’s mouth is suddenly dry.  The reminder of what has been done to Clarke combined with Lexa’s quiet acknowledgment is suddenly too much for her to bear.  The last weeks have been filled with any number of unthinkable tragedies, Anya’s own torture among them, but in this tent, beneath the eyes of the child that she raised and turned into the Commander of the last vestiges of humanity, it all boils over with a force like a dam being broken.  
  
“They _hurt_ my — ” she starts, and then realizes immediately what she has said.  She cuts herself off, but it’s too late.  The words are out.    
  
Lexa’s smile is knowing.    
  
“Protecting one’s Omega takes priority above all else,” she acknowledges softly.  “I understand.”   Anya makes noise of protest.  
  
“She’s not my — ” she begins to deny, but a soft sound from Lexa makes her stop.  Daring to look away from the safe spot she’s found to stare at on the wall, she sees Lexa fasten her with a knowing look.  
  
“You may deny it all you like, Fos, but your eyes do not lie,” she says quietly.  “You look at her the way I looked at Kostia.”     
  
There ensues pause in which Anya is at a loss for words.  After all the days of buildup and ensuing denial, the simplicity of hearing the admission acknowledged out in the open is almost nonsensical.    
  
Lexa is watching her with eyes softer than they’ve been since the days when they shared a bed in the wake of war.  
“She is a beautiful little Omega, Anya,” she says softly.  “A strong, kind, honest woman.  I am happy that your soul has found a place to rest.”  Anya tries to find the words to protest, but she can’t; it is all she can do to surrender her spirit to the goodwill of the gods and fasten Lexa with a helpless look of pleading.    
  
“Heda,” she murmurs, but that is all.  There is nothing else left for her to say that would not be utterly untrue.  
  
“I will fix this for you,” Lexa repeats, and her eyes look like they did the day Anya met her.  Stubborn, defiant, but most of all, as though she knew already what was to come.  Somehow, in an instant, Lexa is both a child and more ancient than the stars from which these awful, incredible people fell.  “I could not fix it for myself, but you matter to me more, Anya.  I will not let you lose your chance at happiness a second time the way that I lost mine.” 

* * *

 

Clarke is sleeping later that night when footsteps announce someone’s approach outside the war tent.  From within, Lexa can hear Callum and Jean’s gruff voices in question, and then a cooler, slightly higher one answering them in kind.  A moment later, a downwind draft allows her to catch the scent of the new arrival, and she stiffens slightly where she is seated on her throne.  The steely scent of Skaikru Alpha informs her that it is Abby Griffin.  
  
“Heda!” Jean’s voice drifts in from outside.  “The Skaikru Chancellor — ”  
  
“Send her in.”  Lexa raises her voice above a normal speaking level, but she is certain that they hear.  The shifting of bodies away from the tent flap informs her that she is correct.  
  
In a moment, the Ambassador’s mother is standing in Lexa’s war tent.    
  
Lexa’s first impression is that the woman looks smaller alone.  Surrounded as Abby usually is by the rest of her Council, the sight of her on her own makes her appear less hardened.  Somehow, under the glow of torchlight away from the Ark’s artificial brightness, there is a softening of her features that makes her seem more human.  There’s also a hesitance about her, a new, on-edge sort of uncertainty, that is different from what Lexa has seen in her before.    
  
“Abi Griffin kom Skaikru.”  Lexa greets her evenly, but makes no move to stand.  Abby remains where she is.  She looks a little lost, dressed in her space clothing, among the artifacts of the ground.  However, when she speaks, she lifts her chin slightly, and her voice is strong and firm.  
  
“I would like to speak with your Omega guard,” is her surprising pronouncement.  “Would you please allow me to see him?”  Determined though Lexa is not to show any flicker of interest toward this difficult and stubborn skai leader, she cannot contain an inward degree of surprise.    
  
“That depends,” she answers cooly.  “Do you intend to inflict upon him the same disrespect with which you treat your sky Omegas?”  In the flickering torchlight, Abby flushes red.    
  
“I do not.”  Her tone is even despite the redness of her cheeks, and steady.  “I have a question for him.”  At Lexa’s prompting eyebrow raise, she continues with her eyes trained firmly on Lexa’s.  “I have found myself ignorant today, Commander, in a way that I did not expect,” she says steadily.  “Being a woman of science, if you allow it, I would like the opportunity to correct that.”  Her scent is of steel and ozone and machines.  To Lexa’s nose, it is unpleasant.  Still, the woman holds eye contact without blinking, and her shoulders are straight and firm.  
  
Lexa decides to grant her the benefit of the doubt.  
  
“I will call him in,” she concedes unblinkingly, and calls out the tent flap in Trigedasleng.  A moment later, Gustus appears in the doorway.    
  
“I heard,” he tells her before she can explain.  He’s eyeing Abby sideways as though made uneasy by her presence, but his compliance is unwavering.  “What is it that you wish to ask of me, Abi kom Skaikru?”  Under his solid gaze, Abby seems, for the first time, to waver.  Her eyes drop to where her hands have begun to tangle together restlessly.  
  
When she looks back up, her brow is pinched.  
  
“My daughter — ” she begins.  
  
“Has recovered,” Gustus tells her.  “She is with Anya now.  Sleeping.”  Abby only nods, but Lexa can see the relief spread across her face.  Her shoulders settle and ease, and Lexa finds herself second-guessing, for the first time, the assumptions that she has made.  A short silence follows, in which Abby continues to fiddle with her hands.    
  
“Do you . . . do Omegas really suffer such illnesses?” she asks abruptly.  “You become sick when mistreated and underfed?”  Gustus’s gaze is serious when he replies.  
  
“Certainly,” he confirms lowly.  Once again, Abby seems to lose her words.  Another long silence ensues.  In it, the only movement is the flickering of the lantern’s flame.  Lexa begins to grow antsy with it, and is about to request that they continue the conversation outside when Abby speaks once more.  
  
“I am a healer,” she says slowly.  The words are halting and uneven.  “I understand bodies and how they work, but things were different in space.  I have no experience with heats and ruts and such . . . such things.  I would like to learn, if you would be willing to teach me.”  She is looking up again, and the expression in her eyes is tentative when she directs it at Gustus.  His blank expression does not change, but Lexa thinks she sees the tension in his body ease. 

“I would be willing,” he grants after a moment.  Abby’s body has loosened to match.  “If your people intend to live long on the ground, you have much to learn.  You will lose your Omegas if you are not careful.”  If what Anya has told Lexa is anything to go by, this is the second time that Abby has heard this speech today.  Still, she shows no sign of arguing.  On the contrary, her face is drawn with what almost looks like regret.  
  
“So we are making them sick,” she says shakily, and her lips are lined at the edges with distress.  “I am making my _daughter_ sick through my negligence and ignorance and pride.”    
  
“You are.”  Gustus’s confirmation is not unkind, but it causes something in Abby’s face to tighten.    
  
“I never wanted that,” she whispers; something a little like tears lingers at the backs of her words.  “I love Clarke, but I — I’m stubborn.  I had to be to keep her alive, but I’m afraid — I’m afraid that it will push her away.”    
  
“I would not fear that yet,” Lexa offers lightly.  “Your daughter is stubborn, too.”  Abby’s face contorts still further.  
  
“I have done badly by them all,” she whispers tightly.  “They survived because of me, but there were so many things I sacrificed to keep them alive.  If they suffer, I have had a hand in that, too.”  Lexa meets her eyes, and though they are brown instead of blue, in the lamplight, they have Clarke’s depth.  
  
“All our children fall when they first learn to run, Abi Griffin,” Lexa tells her quietly.  “They must only be willing to get back on their feet.”  Abby lets out a sound that’s almost a chuckle.    
  
“Our children never learned to run,” she says with a half-smile.  “Low oxygen levels.”  Lexa cocks an eyebrow pointedly.  
  
“Perhaps not,” she grants her.  “But they are learning now.”

* * *

 

“So you’re telling me that you learned a language in three weeks because you fell in _love?”_   Clarke stares incredulously as she shovels the last handful of cheese into her mouth.  “You’re shitting me, right?”    
  
“Not an _entire_ language.”  Octavia rolls her eyes.  “I still have a lot to learn.  I just had to learn how to hold a conversation, didn’t I?  Otherwise Indra would have my head.”  The casual explanation is not sufficient for Clarke, who despite her ease with picking up Trigedasleng, still possess a vocabulary limited to about twenty words.    
  
“Yeah, but you’re _conversational,”_ she points out.  A fly lands on her hand, eager to suss out the cheese crumbs, and she flicks it off with a grimace.  “You can hold a full argument with Lincoln in a foreign language, and you’re trying to convince me that you learned how to do that because you fell in love with him?”  Octavia aims a crumb of bread crust at Clarke’s head and fires.  It lands in Clarke’s hair.  
  
“I’m just saying I had sufficient impetus to learn,” she says with a smirk as Clarke takes aim at her with a pinecone and misses.  “Why the hell do you think _you’re_ learning it so fast, anyway?  I’m telling you, all it takes is immersion.”    
  
“Well, it looks like there will be plenty of that,” Clarke says.  She’s focused on the distant line of trees that mark the beginning of Camp Jaha’s outer perimeter.  She and Octavia have ventured out today, not so far from the camp that they can’t be reached in an emergency, but not so close that anyone is likely to bother them.  It took a little pleading this morning to get Anya to acquiesce to her request to go out, but Clarke eventually won.  She needs to get away.  “Anya says I probably shouldn’t sleep at the Ark anymore.  My mom can just deal.”    
  
Reaching for a large wedge of cheese, Octavia snorts loudly.  
  
“Yeah, I think we’re done with that,” she chortles.  At Clarke’s questioning expression, she elaborates, “I know I have a mate, Griffin, and you have . . . whatever you have, but watching Omegas suffer isn’t exactly my favorite pastime, you know.  Shit makes my heart feel off.”  She makes an uncomfortable face.  Clarke often forgets that Octavia is an Alpha; maybe it’s because she was raised by Bellamy, who grew up with an Omega mother and a hidden little sister to take care of, or maybe it’s the fact that she was hidden under the floor for sixteen years away from the influence of other Alphas.  Either way, her Alpha side has always been so innocuous in Clarke’s presence that she mostly forgets it’s even there.    
  
It’s pleasant, after the altercation with Felix, to be surrounded only by Alphas who have her best interests at heart.  Even Lexa, in her typically standoffish way, has made a real effort to ensure that Clarke is comfortable and safe.  Octavia is one of her closest friends — perhaps her closest friend other than Bellamy, though to her own amusement, Callum seems to be edging into her affections as well.  
  
And then there’s Anya.  Anya, who a little over a week ago was ready to kill her in a mud puddle.  Anya, who yesterday brought about a seemingly miraculous recovery from a severe illness and who has tended to her with devotion and affection ever since.  This is the Alpha in whose arms she has slept, who has taken away her fear of deep water, who has taught her a new language with patience and eagerness.    
  
“You know they’re adding it to the conditions of Skaikru’s acceptance into the Kongeda.”  Octavia interrupts her thoughts.  Tuning back in, Clarke frowns in confusion.  
  
“Adding what?”  It’s just her luck if suddenly there’s something else for her to negotiate; finagling a cease-fire between these clans has taken all of her energy.  At the moment, they’re hanging on by a thread.  She’s not sure if she can sustain it for much longer if something else goes wrong.  
  
“The Kongeda has laws about the treatment of Omegas, you know,” Octavia explains.  “Heda is really firm about them.  She sends scouts into Azgeda every once in a while to make sure they’re following the laws since they were the last clan to agree to them and join the Kongeda.”  Clarke mulls that over.  
  
“So they won’t let Skaikru into the Kongeda if they don’t start treating their Omegas well?” she clarifies.  Octavia looks at her like she’s missing brain cells.  
  
“Clarke, they’ll _annihilate_ Skaikru if they don’t start treating their Omegas well,” she corrects emphatically.  “The Kongeda is the only way of life here.  You join, or you go to war, and you know what will happen to Skaikru if they go to war with the entire Coalition.”  Clarke stares.  She knew Lexa was insistent about Omegas being treated better, but she hadn’t thought it was that serious.    
  
“You mean that Lexa is willing to go to _war_ to protect us?” she parrots incredulously.  The thought of the stoic Commander taking up arms solely to protect fifty-nine of the enemy’s people is a little overwhelming.  Octavia hums quietly, slipping an apple slice into her mouth and closing her eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun.    
  
“Obviously.  She’s not the only one.  Indra was pretty mad when I told her about the suppressants.  Hell, Anya would go to war in ten minutes if it meant keeping you safe.”  Clarke feels a little jolt at that.  She was reaching for their canteen for a sip of water, but stops with her hand suspended in midair.  The way that Octavia so openly acknowledges her unspoken, undefined connection with Anya continues to be unsettling.  She looks up to find that her friend has opened her eyes and is watching her intently.  “Clarke, I’m sorry, but you’re being ridiculous.  When are you and Anya going to stop pussyfooting around each other and admit that you totally want to be mates?”  The question comes out as more of a demand, tinted though it is with light amusement.    
  
Feeling arrested and exposed in the sunlight, Clarke swallows hard.    
  
“I don’t — we’re not — ”  
  
“You might as well stop right there, you know,” Octavia cuts across her easily.  “There’s no point in pretending.  You just experienced full-on Omega fever from a combination of your body wanting to go into heat but being too malnourished and the super aggressive pheromones Felix tried to knock you over with.  Omegas _die_ from Omega fever, Clarke.  The only way that anyone recovers is if the person their spirit recognizes as _their Alpha_ holds them and gives them all sorts of lovey-dovey pheromones to help them heal.”  Octavia gives a small shrug.  “So you might as well stop denying it,” she says offhandedly.  “Even if you’re not ready to admit it yet — which frankly, holy shit Clarke, you’re _incredibly_ slow — the fact that you’re better and not lying dead in your bunk in the Ark tells everybody everything they need to know.”    
  
Clarke is staring at her.  Octavia’s words have left her speechless as she comprehends their meaning.  If what Octavia is saying is true, it means that everything she has been feeling, everything she has been suppressing and imagining that Anya feels as well, is real.  More than that, it means that everyone already knows.  Anya knows.  Anya knows, and likely, if she sought Clarke out to heal her and protect her, it means that Anya feels the same.    
  
Clarke doesn’t even know how to begin to go about absorbing any of that information.  Caught so thoroughly off guard, the only response she can manage is a muttered, “I’m not slow.”  It’s low, but Octavia catches it all the same, and her hoot of laughter is enough to startle Clarke out of her skin.  
  
“Girl, you’re slower than that turtle Monty tried to keep in the drop ship as a pet,” she declares.  She’s grinning like she knows exactly what’s going through Clarke’s head at the moment, and Clarke can’t muster the energy to be anything but slightly annoyed.    
  
“It’s been fewer than two weeks,” is what she comes up with in her own defense.  “It’s been _eleven days,_ Octavia.  I shouldn’t be this attached.”  It’s a thought that has been bothering her, even in the back of her mind, since this whole experience began.  She shouldn’t be this attached, but she _is._   Mostly, what bothers her is that despite the fact that, somehow, it doesn’t even feel rushed.  If anything, the passage of time seems to have passed to a snail’s pace ever since she first began to think of Anya as something other than an enemy.    
  
Clarke is about ready to give in.  She can feel the floodgates opening, and there’s very little she can do to stop it.  She doesn’t want to stop it. It’s been fewer than two weeks, but Clarke is beginning to feel as though she has known Anya all her life; as though a relationship with her, a _life_ with her, would be a completely reasonable step to take.  It’s utterly ridiculous.    
  
Octavia fastens her with a stern look.    
  
“I want to tell you something about Earth, Clarke,” she says firmly.  “This is something I learned from Lincoln, and have felt firsthand, and so far, everything else I’ve seen backs it up, so I want you to listen, okay?”  Clarke is still feeling untethered, and the feeling is making her want to snap at Octavia a little bit, but Octavia looks like she means business.  The Alpha is so seldom this serious that Clarke takes it as a sign that this is important enough to push aside her pride for a minute and listen.  
  
“Okay,” she agrees slowly.  As soon as she says it, Octavia nods.  She’s sitting with her hands clasped, resting them on her knees as she gazes out over the small escarpment in front of them.  Following her gaze instinctively, Clarke sees the tops of the Trikru’s tents dotting the distant hillside.  
  
“Right,” Octavia starts.  “So, I know you grew up on suppressants like everyone else, but I obviously couldn’t get any because I was hidden, so only heard it from Bellamy.  On the Ark, suppressants made people . . . prudish, I guess is the best way to explain it.  They waited months or sometimes years to solidify a union, right?”  At Clarke’s nod, she continues.  “That’s not how it works here.  Our instincts . . . they’re made to bind us to the person we’re meant to be with.  Those kind of soul bond relationships that were the stuff of legends on the Ark?  They’re real, Clarke, and what’s more, they’re _common._   Omegas and Alphas especially recognize mates that will be ideal for them, and people usually get mated often within a day or two.”  At Clarke’s small, incredulous noise, she actually smiles a little.  
  
“I’m serious,” she says pointedly, though a little less firmly than before.  “All that love at first sight stuff people tell stories about?  Real.  Life is short here, unpredictable; that’s why most Omegas our age have a baby on their hip and another on the way already.  You and Anya are practically sluggish by grounder standards.  I get it, I get that things are complicated, but I want you to think, just for a minute.  Pretend for a minute that you hadn’t met Anya as your enemy, that you were a grounder too and you two just happened upon each other some place.  What would you have thought of her the first time that you met?”  Her brilliant green eyes are so open, so earnest, that Clarke has no choice but to contemplate it.  Part of her wants to strangle Octavia for butting so solidly into her private affairs, but the Alpha is also her friend, and the only other person from the Ark who feels the same way about the Trikru that Clarke does.  Clarke feels like she at least owes her the courtesy of entertaining her.   
  
Besides, if she’s being honest with herself, she’s been wanting to do this since the moment she beat Anya in their fight in the mud.    
  
With Octavia’s stare burning into her, Clarke closes her eyes and thinks.  She thinks of the steely curve of Anya’s jaw, her sharp cheekbones and lean body and warm eyes.  Thinks of her ferocity, her determination, her tenderness, and she feels something flutter in her chest.  She thinks of the beautiful woman who has shown herself so far to be strong and kind and deeply loyal, who has treated Clarke with respect and reverence and whose touch makes her blood heat up and her heart stutter so fast she can hardly breathe.    
  
She thinks of what it would be like to be Anya’s mate, to be loved and cherished by her; to build a home with her and spend her days learning to love a life on Earth.   
  
Clarke opens her eyes.  
  
“Hers,” she says in a choked whisper.  “I’d want to be hers.”  Octavia nods with a smirk of absolute certainty.  
  
“Then for fuck’s sake, _do_ something about it,” she urges.  Clarke balks a little.    
  
“We’re in the middle of a _war,_ O,” she protests.  “It’s not exactly the right moment to declare my love.”  Octavia smirks.  
  
“Who said anything about declaring your love?” she says smartly, and Clarke feels her face flush hot.  “I was going to tell you to kiss the woman already, before someone else does.  Hell, if you don’t kiss her, I will, just because.  Unless you don’t care if someone else gets her first?”  Involuntarily, a ferocious possessive snarl rips from Clarke’s throat.  In an instant, she finds that she has risen from the ground and is standing in a defensive stance, fists clenched.    
  
Octavia doesn’t look threatened, but merely nods as though satisfied that this was the reaction she expected all along.  
  
“Yeah, little Omega.  That’s what I thought.  You're not fooling anybody.” 

* * *

 

All that afternoon, all Clarke does is think.    
  
Now that the floodgates have been opened courtesy of Octavia, the barrage of thoughts won’t leave her alone.  After a week and a half of straight denial, the relief of finally admitting her feelings out loud has invited a relentless attack of emotions that Clarke is neither ready nor able to process.  Now, instead of focusing on weapons or tactics or bandage inventory, it is all that Clarke can do to keep her wits about her at all.  It feels impossible when the knowledge of what she has admitted to slams her in the face every time she lays eyes on Anya.  
  
It never rains, but it pours.    
  
Mostly, it’s Clarke’s own fault.  She should take the opportunity of her new awareness to go gather her thoughts in peace and quiet, but between the overprotective Alphas, worried Betas, and overly friendly Gustus, she can’t seem to find a minute to herself.  Once she and Octavia arrive back from lunch, it is to a flurry of activity as everyone readies the camp in preparation for Lincoln’s return and their immediate departure.  No one has any way of knowing when he might arrive, nor what news he might bring, but Lexa apparently has decided that she wants everyone ready to move out the minute he comes back.  
  
Clarke, therefore, gets sucked into preparations without a moment of peace to absorb the enormity of what she and Octavia have discussed.  Nevertheless, as she works helping Callum sort out armor pads, she finds her mind wandering to their exchange.  
  
Part of her, the part that grew up on the Ark with suppressants and status discrepancies and prescribed timelines for bonding and mating and marriage, is finding it difficult to admit to what Octavia clearly already knows.  It seems incredible to Clarke that after a mere week, she is capable of choosing a mate to whom she will bond herself for the rest of her life.    
  
That part of her, though, has been growing smaller with every passing day.  Really, it started to lessen the minute she opened the door to Anya’s cage.  That was a choice not based on any conscious decision to free a potential political ally.  Perhaps that was the eventual excuse she used to justify it, but it wasn’t what prompted her to act.  Freeing Anya came from nothing other than a deep-seated knowledge that it was what she had to do.  She couldn’t leave her there.  It was as though — in Octavia’s words — her spirit knew, even then, what they would come to mean to each other.  What they already meant to each other.  
  
Perhaps it isn’t such an enormous and irrational decision after all.  In her heart of hearts, Clarke knows that it’s not even a decision at all.  What she feels for Anya, what her instincts drive her to do, has nothing to do with rationality.  The connection between them, the draw she feels, exists outside the boundaries of political maneuvers or alliances or Arkadian tradition.  If there is anything Clarke knows, it is that the quiet truth is that on the ground, she is an Omega in every way she never could have been in the sky.  From the moment she hit the ground, her body and instincts have begun to align in the way of those who never left Earth, and the stronger the feeling goes, the more certain Clarke is that it is right.    
  
It’s been a scarce eleven days, but Clarke’s instincts don’t lie.  She could so easily love this Alpha.    
  
Because Lexa keeps Anya and Indra busy all day with war preparations, Clarke has very little contact with the Alpha over the course of the afternoon.  However, during the few moments when their paths intersect, her mind is filled with a tangle of possibilities.  For the first time, Clarke finds herself looking at Anya as a potential mate.  Anya is a warrior, one who defends and fights, and she is beautiful.  Powerful, kind, gentle, fierce; she will protect Clarke and their pups and be a devoted mate.    
  
 _Their pups._  
  
Clarke’s body jolts at the image of herself, belly heavy with the general’s pups.  It is a picture that a day ago she would not have dared let herself entertain.  As unprecedented and rushed as she knows Skaikru would consider it, the thought fills Clarke with a rush of joy.  She knows that on the ground, things are different.  People meet and bond and mate, often within such a short span that they have pups before they’ve even known each other a full year.    
  
It wasn’t the way on the Ark, but it’s the way on Earth, and of the two traditions to align herself with, Clarke knows which way she’ll choose.  She loves her mother, respects Kane, but the Skaikru are no longer Clarke’s people.  The Trikru are her people now.  
  
The Trikru, and Anya.    
  
Anya is the Trikru’s strongest warrior, their strongest Alpha second only to Lexa.  She will protect and defend Clarke and the pups they create together.  She is also kind, and caring, and attentive; she will provide for them well.  More than all of that, though, she is simply Anya — stubborn and smart and interesting and fun and loving.  She will be a wonderful companion.  It is also obvious that she is desperately lonely, and Clarke wants nothing more than to ease that loneliness.  It has only been fewer than two weeks, and yet Clarke can see already how the path will inevitably unfold, gradually transforming Anya from an enemy warrior to a trusted ally, from there to a friend, a devoted lover, and a treasured mate.  
  
She wants this woman as her Alpha.  Damn the consequences.    
  
They’ve reached the turning point.  
  
The reinforcing moment of truth comes that evening after Clarke has retired to the healing tent.  Lexa has at last dismissed everyone after a full day of preparations, and Clarke is tired.  Though fully recovered, a tiny amount of weakness lingers in her limbs after her burning fever.  She has hidden the shakiness in her legs all day so as not to worry Anya further, but privately, she has been looking forward for hours to the moment when she may finally lie down and rest.    
  
There is no one else in the tent when Clarke enters.  Octavia and Indra have been sleeping here too, but their pallets are empty.  No doubt Octavia has goaded Indra into giving her more training after dinner.  The girl’s enthusiasm is unquenchable.  Anya is also off somewhere, presumably speaking to Lexa, so Clarke takes a moment to breathe, alone, before the tent becomes crowded again with the nighttime routine.    
  
As she crosses the small space and goes to collapse on her bed, it occurs to her that there is something resting on the fur serving as her pillow that wasn’t there before.  A closer look reveals it to be a small package bound up with twice.  Oddly, it’s wrapped in Clarke’s old Skaikru shirt that she was wearing when she got sick.  Clarke takes the sight of it to mean that it is intended for her — for after all, who else would it be for?  Gingerly, she lifts it from the pillow, and after a moment’s hesitance, undoes the twine.  When the shirt falls open, revealing its contents, she stops breathing entirely.  
  
A bound book of rough, blank sheets of paper, and nine bright colored pencils.  
  
Fingers trembling, Clarke picks up one of the instruments with care.  _Nine._ She has held a colored pencil only once before in her life: a present for her thirteenth birthday.  It took Jake seven months of setting his own rations cards aside to buy it for her.  She remembers the pride in Jake’s eyes at her excitement when she unwrapped it.  It was half-used, worn down a little at the edges.  It was one of the last pencils on the Ark, she knew; by year ninety-one, almost all of the few art supplies that were originally on the Ark were gone.  She remembers how she savored it, using it sparingly, only for her best and most important drawings.  It was light blue.    
  
Now, nine pencils lie bright and whole in her hand.  Red, green, purple, orange, blue, yellow, pink, brown, and gold.  They are all unused, all perfectly preserved.  On the Ark, such a gift would have cost a fortune, and even on the ground, Clarke knows they must be extraordinarily rare.  She wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for such a thing.    
The sweep of rustling canvas seizes her attention as footsteps halt inside the door of the tent.  The incredible gift cradled carefully in her hands, Clarke turns around, and in an instant, her mouth goes dry.  
  
Anya is standing in the opening of the tent, her golden eyes filled with uncertainty and questions and a tiny, hesitant measure of hope.  The sight of her makes Clarke’s heart stutter a few beats.    
  
“I . . .” for one of the few times since Clarke’s known her, Anya appears to be struggling for words.  “I hope they are acceptable; I was not certain what colors you might like, and there were not many to choose from — ”  Her nervous rambling ends there, because in the split-second it takes her to stammer it out, Clarke crosses the room in two strides and kisses her before she can utter another word.  In a moment, it occurs to her that Anya is frozen against her, and for a heart-stopping split-second, Clarke wonders if she’s been reading everything all wrong.    
  
And then Anya is kissing her fiercely, possessive and needy and immeasurably tender, and Clarke melts into the body against hers with a whimper as her knees go weak.  
  
Clarke has never been kissed like this.  True, she has kissed few people in her life, all of them young and inexperienced, but she knows enough to know that this feeling is unlike any other.  Anya’s mouth is hot against hers, sweet and insistent.  Her scent curls around Clarke in a protective embrace; she smells of power and dark heat and _Alpha._ Anya’s hands are all over her; they brush over her shoulders and the apple of her cheek, tangling in her hair at the nape of her neck and pressing into her lower back to bow her body nearer.  The movement brings them even closer together, and Clarke can’t suppress a whimper at the feeling of Anya pressed so firmly against her.  Anya is soft and sweet-smelling and so, so _warm,_ and her arms are strong as she draws Clarke deeper into her embrace.    
  
This is what she has been waiting for.    
  
This onslaught of overwhelming sensation, this overpowering sense of safety and belonging and _home;_ this is what Clarke has longed for since the ground first awoke the Omega within her.  The feeling of Anya’s lips on hers has stirred a great force within her, an unstoppable instinct to press deeper, closer — it screams to her the unshakeable truth that she has known, one way or another, as inevitable since the moment she opened that cage door.  The Alpha wrapped around her is _hers._   The warm, pleading hands, the lips pressed so feverishly into her own, have awoken something deep within Clarke’s heart, within her very bone marrow, and the feeling will not be ignored any longer.    
  
The knowledge ensnares her, easily and without force, that this is where she needs to be.  This is the only Alpha she will ever want.  The only one she will love and cherish; the only one she will want in her heat, who she will bears pups for when at last they are bonded so firmly that they will never part.    
  
The feeling in her belly is hot and heavy, but her heart is light, and when Clarke pulls back at last with a gasp of air, she finds that her head is, too.  
  
When she pulls back, Anya’s lips are trembling, her eyes stunned.  She breathes shakily; her hands are unsteady when she brings them up to tenderly cradle Clarke’s jaw.  Her eyes are pleading, searching, and when Clarke finally meets them, they blaze darker than the sky from which she fell.  For a moment, when their gazes lock, they merely pause there, speechless, breathing each other in.    
  
Then Anya cradles Clarke’s jaw and pulls her back in, and Clarke is lost in the beauty and strength and pure passion of this fierce, wonderful woman.    
  
At least until a shout and the sound of running footsteps break through the haze; there is the sound of canvas being roughly shoved aside, a yelp of surprise, and then Clarke is stumbling backward, caught off balance by the abrupt glare of lantern light streaming into her eyes.  Immediately Anya’s arms go out to catch her, arresting her fall.  Clarke quickly rights herself, uncaring that her hand is still splayed out across the Alpha’s chest or that her hair is undoubtedly mussed up, and tries to focus her eyes.    
  
Octavia is standing in the open tent flap, lantern dangling suspended from her fingertips, a shit-eating grin on her face.    
  
“First of all, I totally called it,” she declares triumphantly.  “Callum owes me a bottle of moonshine.”  As taken by surprise as she is, Clarke can’t help the rise of a snarl in the back of her throat at the interruption.    
  
 _“What is it, Okteivia?”_   Anya sounds no calmer than Clarke feels, which gives her only minor satisfaction.  Octavia had better have either a good excuse or swift feet if she wants to live to see sunrise.    
  
Octavia’s eyes blaze bright and exhilarated in the lantern light.    
  
“Lincoln just got back, and Bellamy put a radio call through to Raven,” she informs them in a rush.  Her features are aglow with excitement.  “We know how to take down the mountain.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be sex in the next one. Don't you worry.


	5. Don't worry!  Quick update

A very quick update -- I am, unfortunately, beginning university again, so my time for writing each day is a little more limited. The next chapter will be a bit slower in coming, but it IS coming, I promise. More than halfway written already!


	6. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our girls finally get it together and admit what they feel for each other. Also, some Raven and Luna for you saps because you asked.
> 
> Sadly, there is no smut in this chapter because as you might be able to tell, it kind of got away from me. There is a LOT going on. HOWEVER, this chapter has a lot of tooth-rotting fluff to make up for it, and I absolutely promise that there will be smut in the next one. Scouts honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this is 36,000 words.
> 
> So, I'm maybe not the brightest, and didn't read the warnings before deleting one of the "update, don't worry" chapters, so I lost all of those comments. I was going to reply to a bunch of you, so if you commented on the last update and still want to talk to me, shoot me another and I'll write back! One of you wrote a super sweet comment about how you loved the build and the contrast of Trikru vs Ark culture and how everything wasn't just ABO smut with no build up, plus lots of other things, and that comment made my WEEK, and I'm so mad I accidentally deleted all of that. Ugh. Anyway.
> 
> Thank you guys SO MUCH for all of your kind, wonderful comments. Hearing from you keeps me (and this story) going, and I'm so grateful to everybody for sticking with it even though it's been so many months since I've updated. I really appreciate that even though life gets in the way, you're all still here and wanting more. 
> 
> Also, to clarify: the Flame as an AI is not a thing, and Nightblood was not scientifically engineered, but rather a genetic mutation as a result of radiation. The Commanders actually are chosen through reincarnation of the Commander’s Spirit. What the Commander’s Spirit is is up to interpretation.

The moon has risen.

The dark of the forest is smooth and absolute, broken only by thin slivers of dusty moonbeams that break through the shadowed trees.  The horses’ hooves are muted by pine needles, quiet on the forest floor.  The only other sound is the whisper of the others’ hushed conversations.  It is the only thing to reveal their position in the dark.  It’s a good thing her horse knows where it’s going without her to lead him; Anya can’t see its head in front of her face.  She can’t even see Clarke.  If it weren’t for the weight of the Omega’s back against her chest, she wouldn’t be convinced of her safety.

That isn’t to say that she can’t sense her presence in other ways.  Clarke’s musky scent is strong and reassuring.  It’s particularly potent in the dark, when Anya can’t rely on her sight to take in information.  It’s as though her senses have attuned themselves especially to Clarke; every particle of her body seems to be straining to absorb everything there is to know.  Every hitched breath, every sleepy mumble, every stuttered heartbeat; Anya’s spirit takes it in and catalogues it attentively as proof that the Omega in her arms is safe.  

She has reason enough to be on alert.  There is nothing in the forest that will attack them when they are traveling in such numbers, but the dark makes movement feel tricky and uncertain.  The Trikru are used to journeying by horse at night, particularly in the summer when the days are hot, but the Skaikru are new to such travel, and their senses are not accustomed to its particularities.  Though the horses know the direction of their travel better than their riders, the darkness complicates things.  All it would take is one misstep, a steep embankment; a spooked horse.  Then there would be injuries, and the other riders would be forced to stop and tend to their fallen companion, leaving the group vulnerable to other beings that know the dark better than they.  Even without mishaps, someone could stray too far away from the protection of the group by accident, exposing them to attack.  

It is for all these reasons that Anya is glad Clarke is with her.

It was ultimately — as all decisions are — Lexa’s idea to travel at night.  When Lincoln arrived back shortly after dusk and Raven received the Skaikru boy’s radio call from within the mountain, Heda proposed that they set out immediately for Tondisi.  The Skaikru looked a little hesitant at the prospect of traveling through the dark and unfamiliar forest, but everyone agreed nonetheless.  After three days of idleness and waiting, all of them are eager to reach Tondisi and put their battle plan into action as soon as possible.  Every day the prisoners remain in the mountain, more of their people die.  No one, not even Skaikru, can bear waiting any longer.  

In the meeting that followed Lincoln’s return, deciding who would make the journey was a source of great argument.  Four members of Skaikru, including Kane the Chancellor, Abby Griffin, the Omega mechanic, and her engineering companion — Anya believes he is called _Wik_ — declared their intent to join.  In accordance with their various positions, all of them were deemed necessary.  On top of that, Lincoln returned to rejoin his people, and as his mate and Indra’s _seken,_ Octavia was an obvious addition.  Lastly, and intriguingly, the boy Murfi requested to join them as well.  He trailed behind the other Skaikru as they mounted the hill to Lexa’s war tent and quietly made his request.  

At first, Abby, Kane, and Indra outright refused.  Considering his role in the village massacre, as well as various other transgressions — Anya has discovered that he is to blame for the mechanic’s injured leg — none of them were eager to allow his presence.  However, despite their vehement denials, the Omega boy stood strong, insisting that he is good with a _fayagon,_ and that they are his people in the mountain as well, that he refused to be the only one of the Hundred left out of the action at Camp Jaha, and that furthermore, if they did not allow him to accompany them, he would wreak such havoc on the camp in their absence that they would wish they had all died in the mountain upon their return.  

It was Lexa who, with a hint of an amused smirk, finally granted him leave to come.  

With the addition of so many people, the logistics of travel are complicated.  In total, the new members have made their party sixteen in number.  The Trikru, with the addition of Clarke, arrived at Camp Jaha five days ago with twelve horses.  The deaths of the three guards at the hands of the _ripa_ Finn left three mounts unoccupied, but that hardly made a dent.  Thus, they have been forced to get creative or risk leaving essential personnel behind.

Heda, of course, has a horse to herself.  Gustus as her bodyguard and Indra as a general are afforded the same courtesy.  Callum, surprisingly, volunteered to travel with Murphy, while Jean and the other two guards all ride alone.  Kane and Abby, being the leaders of their people, do as well.  Lincoln has taken Octavia on his horse, and Raven, with her injured leg, saddled up with Wick.  That left Clarke to travel with Anya.  

It’s a good thing, too, because in her exhaustion, there would be no chance of her riding on her own.  Clarke fell asleep soon after they crossed the river near Camp Jaha.  

Kept alert by the prospect of the Kongeda War Council and the need to ensure that Clarke doesn’t fall, Anya holds her close.  The weight of the political decisions she has been called upon to make, plus the lingering effects of the Omega fever, have brought on tremendous exhaustion.  The Omega is sound asleep, and stirs only occasionally to adjust the angle of her head upon Anya’s shoulder.  Her face is tucked into Anya’s hair, her weight solid and comforting as she reclines back into Anya’s front.  Her breathing is heavy and slow; she seems utterly relaxed.  It is a display of trust that makes Anya’s heart melt.  

It seems a small thing, but the fact that Clarke is willing to find refuge to sleep in Anya’s arms speaks to their connection in a tangible way.  The faith that the Omega is putting in her tells her more than words ever could, and Anya doesn’t intend to let her down.

She will protect her Omega with everything she has.  

Now that the fragile state of their connection has been . . . addressed, Anya isn’t about to waste any more time.  Certainly, they have yet to discuss the matter openly, but really, it hardly matters.  If there is anything that Anya knows, it is that such things are often beyond discussion.  For how could they not be?  How could she possibly be expected to put everything she feels for Clarke, all of the messy hopes and desperate dreams and heavy, deep-seated longing, into words?  There is no conversation that could do justice to what Anya feels.  Words will only flatten its effect, for to detangle the complexity of what is occurring in Anya’s heart would be to lose its meaning.  Certainly, after the Maunon have been defeated, they will have to come to some sort of verbal agreement about where to go next, but for now, there is no need to sully their blossoming connection with mundane speech.  

The bond that Anya feels with Clarke is deeper than anything she has ever known.  It is intense and insistent and all-consuming, and for now, Anya is willing to merely absorb it without trying to put it to words.

She can show her devotion in other ways.

It is easy, really, to bring her fevered affection to life.  As an Alpha, it is Anya’s first impulse to provide her intended mate with care and protection.  To dote on Clarke is the simplest way she knows of showing the depth of her intentions, and dote on her she does.  As her Omega, Clarke is deserving of only the best.  As an Omega who has spent the entirety of her life save the past few weeks being trodden upon and neglected, she deserves even more, and Anya intends to give it to her.  

Already, it is enough that she has been granted the opportunity to share the horse.  Riding behind Clarke means that the Omega is afforded the chance to sleep in the shelter of Anya’s embrace.  Having been so ill, and approaching a wartime during which respite will be rare, even a few minutes of rest are precious.  It is also an opportunity for Anya to give subtle proof to her intentions.  By volunteering herself for the task and allowing no one else to undertake it, she is offering up her attention.  Clarke might not be aware of it, but for a warrior to divide their attention thus is a display of loyalty on a grand scale.  A warrior cannot afford to be half-present in battle, so to devote part of their attention to someone else not only speaks to their strength and capabilities, but to the lengths to which they are willing to go for the object of their affections.  

All things considered, it’s the very least she can do.

Anya harbors no guilt over the way she treated Clarke in the forest before the alliance.  To do so would be untruthful and irrational; after all, Clarke was just as intent on killing her as Anya was on killing Clarke.  They were both acting out of the interests of their people, and in any case, it has turned out well.  Warriors do not feel guilt over circumstances they cannot control.  

That doesn’t mean, though, that Anya doesn’t plan on making up for it in every way humanly possible.  

Aside from riding with Clarke, she has procured a blanket.  It feels like a small gesture, but it’s an important detail nonetheless.  The nights now are growing colder, and though Anya hardly feels it, she knows that Clarke is more susceptible.  Omegas are more prone to losing body heat, and besides, she suspects that after a life spent on a climate-controlled space station, the Omega’s tolerance for seasonal weather changes is lower than most.  Held securely against Anya’s front with the light fur draped over her lap, Clarke will remain snug throughout their journey even during the coldest part of the night.  

When all of this bloodshed with the mountain is over, Anya will have to focus on obtaining Clarke some ground-suitable clothes.  

For now, though, she contents herself with the knowledge that Clarke is safe.  It is the least she can do to provide the Omega with warmth and security: basic necessities.  It shouldn't be too much to ask — though judging by Skaikru’s abhorrent neglect, it apparently is.  Once they reach Tondisi, she can ply Clarke with more food and proper armor, but for now, Anya is content to expend the resources available to her.  She is proud to give what she has for the sake of the woman in her arms.  That she has the strength and ability to give to her Omega speaks to Anya’s worth and power as an Alpha.  

She knows that Clarke did not grow up with the same standards of Alpha behavior, but she also knows that weeks on the ground have opened her to the innate knowledge that her spirit carries.  Though Clarke does not know the rituals of Trikru Alpha behavior, perhaps her inner Omega will understand the devotion shown by Anya’s actions.  Even if she does not, Anya will continue to give.  She intends to show Clarke what life on the ground has to offer her.  Even if Clarke doesn’t understand the significance of her actions, Anya intends to give her a life befitting of her status.  She will lead Clarke to the wonders of a life where she is cared for, doted upon; where she can spend her days in air and sunlight, learning trades and traditions and finding a place to sink her roots and enjoy the world for all the golden moments it has to offer.  

She asks for nothing in return save the slight glimmer of hope that when she has proven her worth, Clarke might grant her the honor of accepting her love.  

In the past days, Anya has felt like a pup again; anxious and awkward and hopeful in the most tentative of ways.  It — _Clarke_ — has thrown her off course quite like nothing else she has ever encountered.  Anya is a general, a seasoned warrior far beyond the age of a flirtatious _yongon._  She never expected at this age to find someone who would jolt her straight back into her eager and awkward adolescence.  

It’s part of what is keeping her hesitant.  Anya is lonely; since the death of her first mate, her spirit has ached with emptiness and yearning.  It has been years since she has had a person to devote her purpose to.  Being near Clarke is wonderful.  The warm eyes, the sweet affection, the earnest attention paid to her; Anya has missed it.  She has missed feeling wanted.  

Certainly, being desired isn’t an experience that Anya has lacked.  In the seven winters since the loss of her first mate, there have been any number of takers.  She is, after all, a powerful Alpha, and highly desirable in the eyes of the young _sekens_ and new warriors of the villages and Heda’s army.  Every week, it has seemed, young men and women have tried their luck, hoping for a chance to wine and dine and bed one of the clan’s two most powerful Alphas — Heda, of course, being beyond the reach of even the most inventive imagination.  Yet Anya has spurned them all.  Despite the fact that many of her potential suitors have been attractive and even good company, not a single one has managed to turn her head.  None of them, with all their luck and attempts, have ensnared her interest.  They have all seemed distant and untouchable even as they look upon her with eyes filled with hungry intrigue.  

None of them have looked at her the way the Clarke does.  Like Anya is as mesmerizing and infinite as the stars from which she fell.  

Perhaps it is because Clarke has lived among them that she considers the stars her home.

Anya is hopeful, but she can’t fathom that Clarke truly wants her — _her._  She’s not oblivious; she is well aware that she is uncommonly attractive, is confident in her capabilities, but Anya  feels suspended in disbelief nonetheless.  Anya is not as young, not as exciting, perhaps, as some of the others Alphas around.  She is a little jaded, a little weathered; not old, by any means, nor anywhere close, but feeling less young all the same.  She is not _eighteen._  Certainly, most Clarke’s age have a mate and have borne a pup or even two already, but it is most often with a mate their own age.  Anya has been that young already; has had a mate already, lost them, and lived nearly another quarter of her life in their absence.  

Of course, perhaps there is something to be said for it.  Anya knows the paths of love and loss enough to treasure them the way that young ones often take years to learn.  She has built a life; she is stronger and wiser, and twenty-seven is young yet.  Still, she would understand were Clarke to want someone not half again her own age.  

And yet it is over her heart that Clarke has chosen to lay her head to rest in the night.  Anya does not pretend to fathom how it has come to be that this wonderful, beautiful, loyal Omega has chosen her, but she will accept the honor with grace and dignity.  She may not know why Clarke has chosen her arms to rest in, but she will hold them steady through the night as they ride.   

Only a few hours remain until dawn when at last the forest around them begins to thin, signaling the outer boundaries of Tondisi and affording them a clearer path for the last mile of their journey.  Soon enough, a few shouts through the still-complete darkness herd the stragglers of the group back into formation, and within a few minutes, they are clopping through the gates of Tondisi.  The village is dark and quiet at this time of night, but a few familiar faces emerge from the shadows of the gates to greet them.  As Anya draws her horse to a gentle halt, Nyko comes hurrying out of the dark bearing a lantern and three small packages wrapped in cloth.

“Welcome home, general.  Arbor berries,” he whispers in response to Anya’s questioning look at the parcels.  He keeps his voice hushed so as not to disturb the nighttime tranquility of the village.  “For the _skai_ Omegas.  It will help lessen the effects of stress until they can be properly fed.”  Nodding gratefully, Anya murmurs her thanks and accepts the packages, tossing one through the flickering dark to Callum, who looks a tad uncomfortable supporting Murphy’s sleepily swaying weight.  

 _“Mochof,_ Nyko.”  

 _“Pro._  I have your tents set up and fresh furs laid.  You can bring her straight there.”  Nyko’s generosity, as always, is a friendly comfort.  These preparations must be Lexa’s doing; she must have somehow sent another messenger that Anya wasn’t aware of.  Once again, she marvels at her Heda’s ways.

“But the Council — ?” 

“The Azgeda and Sankru ambassadors have yet to arrive,” Nyko explains softly as he carefully lifts the saddle bags.  “We expect them with the midday sun.  You should have some hours to sleep before Heda calls the War Council to order.”  A moth flits in through the dark and bats around the lantern.  Against her, Clarke shifts.  Nyko notes the movement.  “Shall I carry her to your tent, general?” he offers graciously.  Anya shakes her head.  

“I can manage.   _Mochof,_ Nyko.   _Reshop.”_  

“Good night, general.”  Nyko steps off to help Callum and Murphy dismount.  Anya leans forward slightly, smoothing her hands down Clarke’s arms as she murmurs into her ear.  Despite the chill in the air, the Omega is warm beneath her touch.  

“Wake up, _strik skaifaya._  We are here.”  A sleepy grumble is all she gets in response.  Attempting not to jar her, Anya nudges her forward a little on the horse’s back.  Clarke only nuzzles into the side of her neck with a sigh.   _“Klark.”_  When there is still no response, Anya rolls her eyes to herself, but moves to dismount.  Landing on the ground with an arm still braced around Clarke’s waist, she draws the Omega gently from the horse and into her embrace.  A moment later, she has her in her arms, and is bearing her off to the tent where hopefully they may find some peace to sleep.

They have only a few hours in which to rest before the dawn comes, bringing with it the thrill and fervor of war. 

* * *

As if Clarke doesn’t have enough problems already, she wakes up with a distinct and familiar feeling in her belly that can only mean she’s uncomfortably aroused.  

The reason becomes apparent as soon as she is awake enough to take in her situation.  They are back in the same tent that they slept in upon their first arrival in Tondisi less than a week ago.  She must have been asleep when they arrived late last night; she has no memory of anything after crossing the river back near Camp Jaha.  Anya must have carried her here to sleep before crawling into bed herself, and therein lies the problem.  Though the bed of furs on which they’re lying is more than large enough for two, one or both of them appears to have shifted in the night.  However respectable a position they might have fallen asleep in, any attempts at modesty Anya might have made have been rendered entirely moot.  The only small mercy is that they are both at least clothed in their undergarments and shirts from last night.  At this point, Clarke can’t tell if she’s angry about it or not.  

It must have been cold in the night; either that, or Clarke’s in even less control of her body than she thought.  If it is, she feels she has sufficient reason for concern, because if this is the result of them sleeping mostly clothed in the same bed, she would hate to see what might happen if either of them happen to bare some skin.  Either way, her predicament now is just about beyond the possibility of redemption.  She can only hope that her mother doesn’t barge in looking for her.  

Clarke is sprawled out on her back — though with the way she’s positioned, _sprawled_ feels rather generous.  In her sleep, Anya has moved to rest fully on top of her, one arm snaking beneath Clarke’s shirt, the other curling around her shoulder.  Her face is buried in Clarke’s hair, and when she exhales, her breath furls across the place where Clarke’s pulse beats erratically, sending shivers skittering beneath her skin.  The musk of furs combined with the scent of sleepy Alpha is musty and sweet in her face.  

The whole situation feels almost intentional, but Clarke can’t claim any innocence either; she’s got one leg tangled with Anya’s beneath the furs, and the other is spread wide to accommodate the Alpha’s hips.  The result is that Anya is very much pressing against the full length of her body — including, most significantly, between her legs, where Clarke has begun to burn.  

Honestly, she’s surprised she’s held out for this long.  It’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks, but with the strength of the feelings that have been creeping up on her, it’s no small wonder that Clarke’s horny.  The last time she experienced _any_ sort of intimacy was with Finn, and that was only a small amount of fooling around with their shirts off.  Between starving and being ambushed and speared and kidnapped and imprisoned and shot at and generally trying not to die every other minute, Clarke hasn’t had a moment to herself since she was still in solitary.  She hasn’t had an orgasm in almost two months, and the effects are starting to make themselves known.  There wasn’t much else to do in the Sky Box, after all; she’s used to a little more . . . personal attention than this.  

Being an Omega who is very much pinned under an Alpha she intends to mate, and very much aware of said Alpha’s erection, is hardly helping matters.  

Clarke hardly even has room to be embarrassed.  She’s beneath an Alpha who is beautiful as well as clearly interested in her, and frankly, her hormones are making her blood feel itchy.  Anya’s hand up the back of her shirt doesn’t exactly help soothe the feeling.  Two months without an orgasm and a few days in close proximity to a very attractive, very much unmated Alpha has her feeling decisively on edge.  What adds to it even more is the fact that Anya clearly shares some degree of the same sentiment.  Awake or not, her body dictated the position they’re currently in; she has just as much of a desire to be close as Clarke does.  

It’s good that Anya returns her feelings, but it’s also a problem.  They have a _war_ to fight, dammit.  How on Earth is Clarke supposed to focus on the Mountain Men when Anya is right in front of her looking perfectly fuckable?  Or lying on top of her, for that matter?  She’s making a fine example of her species.  She can only hope that no one catches her at it and decides she’s unfit to lead her people into battle.

She _is_ unfit, but that’s entirely beside the point.  

It would be enough that they merely remain like this, asleep without embarrassment, potentially indefinitely, but of course that’s too much to ask.  Within several minutes of her waking, the Alpha above her stirs.

Anya shifts slightly above her as she begins to awaken.  It’s not enough to put the pressure of her full weight on Clarke, but it’s still enough to nudge them a little closer where it counts, and suddenly Clarke’s a lot more focused on controlling her breathing than she was a moment ago.  The heartbeat against her stutters, then speeds up.  Then honey eyes blink lazily open and drift, out of focus, for a moment before they land on Clarke’s.  

 _“Sonop, strik skaifaya.”_  Anya’s sleepy Trigedasleng mumble is endearingly grumbly.  Her voice is muffled by Clarke’s hair when she turns her head back into the Omega’s neck.  

 _“Sonop,_ Anya,” Clarke murmurs back.  The intonation feels better than it did a few days ago; she and Octavia have been practicing.  She’s been improving.  Despite the fact that it’s an entirely new language for her, Clarke has noticed that Trigedasleng is almost more intuitive to her than what the Trikru all refer to as _gonasleng._  Already, she’s finding that her responses, when she knows the words, come automatically in Trig rather than in the Old Language.  This quieter, more intimate speech, especially, feels more natural in grounder words.  

“It is past sunup,” Anya counters after a moment of thought.  Her face is still hidden in Clarke’s hair.  “We have slept late.”  Clarke cranes her neck to try to gauge the light that’s filtering through the canvas.  

“How late?  It can’t be past eight o’clock,” she remarks after some consideration.  Tousled with sleep, Anya’s head emerges from her neck.  The Alpha blinks blearily at her in the new light.

“I do not know what it is, this _o’clock,”_ she says.  “But the sun has risen, and we have not.  It is all right.  All of the ambassadors have not yet arrived, so we have time to rest while we wait.”  She seems so far to be either blissfully unaware of the predicament below their waists, or else is choosing to ignore it.  Not particularly wishing to engage in such a discussion so soon after waking, Clarke follows her lead.

“Did you carry me here last night?”  Anya hums a little in affirmation.  Beneath Clarke’s shirt, her hand is warm.

“We arrived late, and you were sleeping very soundly.  I thought it best not to wake you,” she answers, and once again, there’s more care in that statement than Clarke has ever received almost anywhere else.  It’s not that Skaikru would have gone out of their way to wake her for the sole purpose of making her miserable, but they certainly would never have thought twice about her comfort.  Such things wouldn’t occur to them.  

Here she is, in a tent with an Alpha who took the time at last night’s late hour to carry her halfway across a village, strip her of her pants and shoes and jacket, bundle her into bed, and keep her warm throughout the night besides.  Clarke is nestled quite comfortably between fluffy furs beneath her and the soft body above her.  She doesn’t know where Abby and Kane are sleeping, but she has a feeling that their accommodations don’t quite mimic hers.  

“What will we do while we wait?”  Clarke is thinking of the numerous things they probably have to do, which no doubt include gathering weapons and personnel and arguing with a number of influential people.  With the Kongeda gathering in full, the laundry list for today is exhausting.  While Clarke is eager to move against the mountain, she’s not particularly excited about what the day holds.

To her surprise, though, Anya answers her query with an easy, “Whatever you would like.”  It’s accompanied by a gaze so soft that Clarke nearly melts into a puddle right there on the furs, but she restrains herself for the sake of her dignity.  

“Whatever I’d like?” she can’t help parroting with a little disbelief.  The open-ended response leaves possibilities so vast that Clarke can’t even begin to consider an answer.  For starters, she is in an unfamiliar village among unfamiliar people and traditions; she has no idea what there is to do.  Furthermore, even if she did, it has been so long since she’s had the pleasure of deciding for herself how to occupy her time that she finds she’s quite forgotten how.

 _Whatever the hell we want_.  

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she says honestly, and half-expects Anya to be disappointed by her indecisiveness.  Anya, however, actually brightens visibly at her admission.  Shifting a little, she curls the arm beneath Clarke closer, encasing her more firmly in her grasp.  The movement pulls Clarke closer against the hardness between her legs; a rush of heat floods her at the movement, but she sucks down a breath, intent on not showing how it affects her. 

“There are many things that I could show you,” Anya offers with features now aglow with somewhat sleepy earnestness.  “Tondisi is an important village; you would get to see our ways much better than from a war tent.”  She not only looks eager at the prospect, but painfully hopeful in a way that makes Clarke’s heart ache.  She feels a flicker of anticipation at the prospect of Anya taking her around one of her villages, showing her the lives and trades and traditions within its walls.  All she has seen so far of the Trikru are war meetings; she would relish the opportunity to see them in a time of peace.  After all, she remembers with a note of contentment, these are the people whom she will live among when this terrible business with the mountain is over.

“I would love to see how your people live,” she says softly, and Anya’s eyes burn bright.

“And _I_ would love to see some breakfast, but Indra won’t allow the _sekens_ to eat until all of the generals have been served,” a voice breaks in.  It’s Octavia, who has manifested in their tent for the second time in twelve hours like some sort of renegade genie.  Of course she has.  By this point, Clarke should really be used to it.  She can only be grateful that it isn’t Abby — spontaneous combustion on the part of Skaikru’s main healer and vice chancellor isn’t what she wants to see at this hour of the morning.  

Octavia is already dressed in her armor and warpaint, and by the way she’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, it’s clear that she’s been up since the crack of dawn, ready and raring to go.  The tent flap she’s holding open is letting in all of the light, and the shock of it combined with her sudden appearance causes Clarke and Anya to roll apart in surprise.  Octavia pays no attention to their consternation, tapping her sword impatiently on the side of her boot.

“I know you’re all cozy and bonding and whatnot, but I’m hungry, so if you don’t mind, would you two get your asses down to the square already?” she urges.  “I could eat an entire pauna.”  With that, she’s bolting back out of the tent, leaving the flap hanging wide open.  In the distance, Clarke hears Lincoln shouting admonishments.  

“I guess we know our first plans for the morning,” she remarks in amusement, and begins to sit up and search for her pants.  

“I need to have a word with Indra about teaching her _sekens_ basic manners,” Anya grumbles, throwing an arm over her eyes to ward off the sudden light.  

* * *

Breakfast is an awkward affair.

Clarke and Anya made their way down to the village square in the wake of everyone else, so their joint arrival was less than inconspicuous — especially with the way Octavia smirked at them from over her tea.  They’ve taken seats between Octavia and Gustus, leaving Abby to eye them suspiciously from across the fire.  Since Clarke fell ill, she’s noticed that Abby has been less antagonistic than before, but she’s not inclined at the moment to get any closer than she has to.  She supposes that at some point the two of them will have to communicate, but for now, Clarke prefers to keep her distance.

Instead, she chooses to focus on the novelty of the experience that is Tondisi.  Clarke has been in the village before, of course, but as she was injured and a treaty had yet to be negotiated, her enjoyment of it was limited.  Now, safe in the knowledge of the alliance and with the new and added curiosity brought on by her closeness to Anya, she is prepared to take in the experience in full.

Breakfast is brought by a collection of villagers who, according to Anya, have volunteered to feed Heda’s army.  It’s yet another window into Lexa’s influence.  So far, everything that Clarke has noted has pointed towards great respect for the young commander.  Certainly, Lexa is an entity in and of herself.  Clarke knows that now isn’t the time, but when this war is over, she wants to ask Anya more about Heda’s story.  

The Omegas, of course, are served first at breakfast.  Clarke is beginning to grow accustomed to it, but Murphy and Raven display surprise and confusion when they are handed full plates of eggs, meat, and bread before everyone else.  Lexa, too, waits for all of the Omegas including Clarke and Gustus to be served, and Clarke catches sight of Abby and Kane’s surprised expressions across the small seating area as they bewilderedly follow her lead.  True to character, Murphy only allows a moment of suspicion before he digs right in.  Raven, though, hesitates, and when at last she begins to eat, Clarke can see her uncertainty and confusion written clearly across her face.  

Clarke recalls the little that she’s heard of Raven’s story with a pang of sympathy.  She knows from Finn that her sister Omega grew up the daughter of the Ark’s resident drunk, a woman who routinely traded Raven’s rations for more alcohol.  Between that and the less-than-gracious treatment she’s received at the hands of the Ark higher-ups, it’s not small wonder that a full meal comes as a shock.  The only consolation Clarke can find so far is that according to Raven, Abby treated the young Omega with a great deal more respect than anyone else on the Ark.  Perhaps there’s a glimmer of hope for her mother, after all.  

Watching them eat, Clarke is reminded once again of the possibility of defectors.  She thinks that Murphy, at least, would likely choose such a scenario were the option provided to him; certainly there are others among the Hundred who would do the same.  She’ll have to speak to Lexa about it later.

For now, though, Clarke is having a hard time considering the people she’s in the process of losing.  It’s enough that there have been so many lost in the process of bringing everyone to the ground — hundreds, if not over a thousand.  Living in the shadow of their loss will only blur her consideration of what needs to be done for those remain.  To think about the possibility of losing others on top of that, people she _cares_ about, is too much to bear.  

Besides, for the moment, Clarke is daring to be hopeful.  There is enough space between this moment and the reality of war into which she can fit some small measures of joy. 

Among them, she is getting to know Anya more.  There is something about their connection that defies knowledge — Clarke can’t imagine that knowing Anya’s favorite color, if she has such a thing, could possibly make her more infatuated — but she appreciates the opportunity to bond nonetheless.  It makes her feel a little less odd about the fact that they’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks.  It’s not like that _changes_ anything, of course; Clarke has come to acknowledge that their bond is what it is regardless of the time frame.  Still, she’s enjoying the time they get to spend together.

Learning about Anya’s life feels a lot like opening a book she’s been waiting to read.  On the Ark, literature was fairly finite, physical books even more so.  In order to make them last, Clarke remembers putting several aside, saving them so that she might have something to look forward to.  Getting closer to Anya feels like the moment she finally took them in her hands, handling the pages carefully and poring eagerly over every word.  

With every passing moment, it becomes clearer than ever to Clarke how very much there is to learn.  

After breakfast, they venture together out into the village.  Tondisi is large compared to what Octavia and Anya have told her of Trikru villages; despite the closeness of the forest, Clarke understands that its spread is wide.  Its center is concentrated near their encampment, a collection of communal buildings framing a large square with a massive fire pit in the center.  Trees line its edges, some of their leaves just beginning to burn yellow with a hint of autumn.  The walkways between buildings are a haphazard combination of dirt and cobblestone and what Clarke understands to be Old Earth pavement, worn smooth by nearly a century of the Apocalypse’s survivors.  

It’s fairly representative of most things here, Clarke comes to realize as they wend their way through the winding, narrow streets.  She’s seen pictures of the Old Earth capital city; from what she remembers, it was a crowded metropolis filled with sky-high buildings of glass and steel, trains and cars and busses choking the wide boulevards.  It was impressive, she knows; shiny and sophisticated.  In comparison, Tondisi is small and rather rustic.  Still, Clarke can’t help but think it more beautiful.  

The Trikru have built their homes out of the ruins of an Old Earth city, and the result is a combination of the old and the new.  The buildings are small and rather squat, two stories at most, built solidly out of wood and stone.  The streets are wide enough to accommodate two horse-drawn carts traveling side-by-side.  Broad trees and vines decorate the sides of houses, and gardens sprawl between buildings, overflowing with life.  There are no signs for streets or shops — for Trigedasleng, Clarke has learned, is not a written language.  Everywhere, there are people: vendors selling goods from wagons, children racing through the streets; young warriors in armor practicing swordplay.  

The old capital city may have been more impressive, but Tondisi is welcoming and vibrant in character.

Clarke loves it.  She never felt this way about the Ark; as much as it was home, their metal box in the sky always felt like a prison.  Always, she was consumed with visions of life on Earth.  Now that she is actually here, experiencing it with the promise of a future, she can hardly wait to explore it.  Like the Trikru, it feels more _hers_ already than anything in the sky ever did.  

The Trikru themselves are fascinating to her.  As they walk, Clarke’s ears pick up Trigedasleng from every corner.  She is able already to notice a few words and phrases.  The dialect has evolved quickly, but there are enough similarities to the Old Language that she can, with effort, understand a good deal.  She knows that the members of Skaikru might feel differently, but it’s important to Clarke to learn.  If these are to be her people, she wants to be able to communicate with them.  Besides, to address them in their own tongue feels like a symbol of respect.  

The more of the village she is exposed to, filled with its everyday people and happenings, the more it occurs to Clarke that the Skaikru have received a small and warped view of the grounders.  The Hundred were consumed with fighting fierce and deadly warriors, and the rest of the Ark likely found nothing different.  This, though, is nowhere near the vision of screaming warriors in terrifying masks descending on them through the trees.  These are families, merchants, tradesmen; people with their own culture and traditions and vibrant history.  

They are also unexpectedly solicitous.  

As she and Anya traverse the streets, people come to their doorways to watch them pass.  Clearly, having Heda herself in their city is a big deal, for the arrival of the war delegation has caused a stir.  Children stare as they pass by, and many of the adults offer greetings in Trigedasleng.  A number of them incline their heads respectfully.  As they pass by a fruit stand, its vendor hurries forward with two pieces of fruit in her outstretched hands.

Clarke can’t follow the exchange that ensues, but when Anya and the woman have conversed, the purple fruit finds its way into her hands.

“She thanks us for our service in bringing the news of the mountain to Heda,” Anya translates, seeing Clarke’s bemused expression.  “She and her mate have lost their son to the Maunon.  She wishes us safety and victory in battle, and gives us fruit from the tree her son planted as a token of her appreciation.”  Clarke is speechless.  As she fumbles, struggling for words, the Trikru woman’s eyes bore into her.  Such an offering can only be answered with something profound, but beneath this woman’s gaze, Clarke finds that she has no words.  

Though logically she has known since discovering Anya in the harvest chamber that the grounders have also lost many to the mountain’s grasp, her focus in war has been on the forty-seven.  Any thought of the hundreds of grounders killed by the Mountain Men has been a distant one.  This woman, standing before her in the flesh with her face lined with the grief of her lost child, causes a gaping hole to open in Clarke’s heart.

 _“Mochof,”_ she whispers at last through broken breath, and discovers that her voice is shaking.  “I’m sorry that I — what the Maunon are doing is wrong,” she say fiercely.  “It’s cruel and inhuman, what they’re doing to you, and I will . . . I want to end it.  For all of us.”   It’s unlikely that the woman has understood a word, but Clarke’s shaking voice causes her expression to settle into something calm and understanding.  She steps forward and gives Clarke’s cheek a gentle pat.  She murmurs something in response, in which Clarke thinks she catches the word _skaiheda,_ and then steps away again and makes her way slowly back to her cart, leaving Clarke feeling shaken.

“Not everyone among us is a barbarian,” Anya says quietly from beside her as they watch her go.  Hearing her, Clarke turns to her, stricken.

“I don’t think you’re barbarians!” she protests.

“Many of your Skaikru do.”  Anya doesn’t sound unkind, but she’s solemn as she watches the fruit vendor walk back to her stand.  “This is why I wish to show you the way we live, Klark.  Our people will be living beside one another soon enough, after all.  I know that you and Okteivia see us for what we are.  Perhaps you can help the others to do the same.  Please understand, _strikon,”_ she adds, seeing Clarke’s consternation, “I do not necessarily fault them for it.  Our people come from different worlds.  Our differences are many.  The Skaikru on your Ark still lived the lives of the world before _Fayataim,_ before the world was burned.  Life on Earth is not as they expected.  They are different, but they should not presume that they are _better_ simply because they survived the burning of the world in the sky.  Those of us who are left on the ground are survivors because we stood on a burning world and learned how to make it our home.  Perhaps we do not have your _tek_ or your learning or your Old World healing and science, but we have much that Skaikru do not.”  

“I know that, Anya.”  Clarke’s voice is low.  “It’s why I’ve chosen your people over mine.  Maybe Skaikru have technology and medicine that didn’t survive on the ground, but you have _culture._  The ground has traditions and knowledge of the earth and dirt and trees and _seasons._  You have _diversity;_ my god, the last time we had any new blood in the sky was when the stations all merged on Unity Day.  The same people have been marrying up there for a century; we’re probably all related at this point, even distantly.  Separate cultures aren't a thing anymore for us.  I mean, I know my dad’s father was American, but I think my mom’s father was Australian, and I _know_ one of my grandmothers was definitely Russian.  Maybe both, actually, now that I think about, but — my point is, even if people looked different, everyone on the Ark was more or less the same,” Clarke concludes with a shrug.  She’s realized that she’s rambling, but she thinks that if she’s going to go on and on about their cultural differences, now is the time.  It’s important to her that Anya understands what she means.

Anya, though, has ceased to look stern and is now watching her with something like confusion written across her face.  

“Russian?” she questions.  Clarke nods.

“Well, yeah.  Mir was one of the stations that joined the other federations on Unity Day,” she explains, but Anya’s expression remains fixed in a frown of curiosity.  

“No, I understand that many groups within the sky became your one Ark,” she says contemplatively.  “It is the words I do not know.  Was _Rushan_ the name of a Commander?”  Her question takes a moment to register, but when it does, understanding comes to Clarke like a thunderclap.

“Russian,” she says slowly.  “Like — like people from Russia.  You mean you don’t — the grounders don’t know what Russia is?  What other countries are?”  The idea seems incredible, but then again, it occurs to her that it _isn’t._  How would the grounders know, when separated by oceans, that other places exist?  She doesn’t know if anyone survived in other parts of the world, but she presumes that some must have.  Yet how would anyone know?  

Anya is now frowning in earnest.

“I know that there are other lands,” she disagrees, with the slightest trace of haughtiness evident in her voice.  “Elders tell stories that their parents told them of people who lived in places other than here, but many generations have passed since we knew of anyone who came from one.  Their names have been lost to us with time.”  Clarke has to work to hide her astonishment; it makes sense, of course, and she doesn’t want Anya to think that she’s judging her lack of knowledge.  Why would anyone here have reason to know the names of other places?

“That makes sense,” she says mildly.  “I bet heritage is still more diverse here on the ground, though, especially since this used to be America.”  For the second time, Anya’s frown deepens.

“What do you mean?”  She looks even more confused than before, and Clarke is at a loss.  She definitely doesn’t feel qualified to go around explaining such things, but it doesn’t look like anyone else is up for it.  

“Well, most people who lived around here in Old Earth times had family that was originally from somewhere else,” she explains after a moment of consideration.  “There weren’t a lot of people left who were native to this country, because when people from other parts of the world showed up, they . . . well, they killed most of the people who were already living here.  I guess they thought they had a right to it because they’d found it.”  Anya sends her a pointed look, at which Clarke can feel her cheeks flush.  “Like the Skaikru, I guess,” she adds in a mumble.  

“We do not think about family as anyone besides parents and siblings, often only to two degrees,” Anya muses, and Clarke is relieved that she doesn’t pursue the point further.  “Grandparents, yes.  Aunts and uncles certainly.  Cousins.  But these _great-grandparents_ you speak of are already too far back.”  

“So none of you would know much about your own heritage beyond that,” Clarke finishes the thought.  “Well, whoever _your_ ancestors were, at least we know they were unfairly attractive.”  It’s not what she means to say, and the moment the words are out, she can feel a blush creeping up the back of her neck.  By the smirk Anya is sending her, it’s clear that the Alpha heard.  The look is dangerous; something about the dark mirth in Anya’s gaze makes the still-burning fire in Clarke’s belly flicker.  “Anyway,” she continues hurriedly, feigning ignorance, “I think there was still an old DNA analysis kit left somewhere on the Ark.  I have no idea if it made it down, but if it did that might be fun to do someday.”  Anya’s amusement is almost tangible.

“You are speaking in tongues, _skai prisa,”_ she says teasingly.  “I hope you do not think yourself superior simply because you have Old Earth knowledge; I have a good nine summers on you, you know.  There is much I know that you have yet to learn.”  

Clarke’s knee-jerk response is _teach me,_ but considering the abundance of people around them, she doesn’t think it quite appropriate.  It’s too late to preserve the integrity of her thought process, though, and it’s all she can do to prevent her mind from entirely running away with her.  A glance lets her know that Anya isn’t serious in her chastisement; in fact, she looks rather smug.  The effect somehow manages to be attractive rather than demeaning.  Anya’s eyes are dark and knowing, and Clarke feels another low swoop in her belly at the thought of what sort of things the Alpha could teach her.  

It’s the kind of thought that is certainly going to get her into trouble.  There is, after all, a war brewing, and the effort will need all of her attention and energy.  Nevertheless, Clarke can’t seem to help herself.  With the relinquishment of the reins to her innermost Omega instincts has come the concession that her logical mind is no longer in control.  She understands now what Octavia meant; her Omega has a clear sense of what she wants.  It’s just that at the moment, what Clarke wants isn’t exactly convenient.  

It doesn’t appear to matter.  Already, the effects of Anya’s presence are showing on her; Clarke can feel it in the same way she knows her time on the ground has changed her.  She feels powerfully protective of the woman who has shown her such care and compassion.  Even more potent is her need to be close Anya; emotionally, of course, but physically close in a way that has her pressing against her whenever she can.  There has been something building between them since Mount Weather, and ever since then, Clarke has been a goner.  She supposes she didn’t fully acknowledge it until yesterday, but the fact remains regardless.  

This isn’t something that she can control.  What she feels for Anya is beyond Clarke’s realm of knowledge and experience.  All she can do is to follow her instincts blindly, trusting that they will lead her on the right path.  Mount Weather or no, this situation is swiftly growing out of control.  Already, her body is screaming at her, pleading with her to choose Anya as her mate, to be bred with her pups; to be protected and loved and cherished by her.  

Maybe others would argue that this takes away her autonomy, but Clarke doesn’t see it that way.  She will be cared for without anyone subjugating her or taking away her power to make her own decisions; she will be given free reign over everything she does, be taught, be shown how to earn food and make weapons and hold political power.  On top of that, she will be cared for.  It is in her _nature_ to be taken care of, and Clarke spent nearly eighteen years of her life having her very deepest self withheld from her.  After all that time, she is filled with joy at the prospect of being able to embrace it.

She wants this woman as her Alpha.

Rushed as she knows Skaikru might view it as being, Clarke takes comfort in what Octavia told her about the rapidity with which the grounders choose their mates.  Certainly, Octavia has been mated to Lincoln for longer than Clarke and Anya have _known_ each other, despite the fact that they only met a few days sooner.  It makes sense with what Clarke is coming to understand of grounder culture: instincts, above all else, take precedence.  

The simple fact of the matter is that on the ground, things change quickly, and such rapid evolution is expected.  One might have a friend one day and an enemy the next.  It is more than likely that a spear to the chest will come before they have a chance to think through all the other ways they might possibly be killed or otherwise inconvenienced.  Worry is an unnecessary thing here on the ground, and so, with the threat of death constantly looming over their heads, the time to act on feelings is _now._  There is no time for contemplation or regret or beating around the bush: right now, they are alive.  In five minutes, they might not be, so let them live and damn the consequences.  

Whatever the hell they want, indeed.

* * *

In the course of their explorations, they pass by the training grounds.

The arena is a large depression set in the middle of a square at one edge of the village.  Normally, it is only half-filled, some _sekens_ out practicing tracking or wilderness combat out in the forest.  Today though, with war imminent, the arena is crowded with _sekens_ and younger warriors who are untouched by battle.  The space is large, with racks of weapons lining the edges and the seats filled with spectators — younger siblings or friends, often, of the _sekens_ who are trying their hand at direct combat.  The air is rent with the clash of swords and enthusiastic shouts, and Anya cannot help but smile a little.  This is the very same arena in which she trained Tris for several years before her death.  Lexa, of course, she taught in Polis with the other _natblidas._

The memory of her littlest _seken_ fills Anya’s heart with sadness; Tris was a promising young warrior, and so eager.  Her spirit was fierce, and even when she first came to Anya as a child of only eight winters, she was ready for battle.  Her expression was always aglow with excitement at the prospect of action, and she learned quickly; she was only ten when she received her first battle scars.  In between times, when she wasn’t training, she was giggling and impish, often earning a smile from Anya with her mischievous antics.    
Anya misses her dreadfully.  She tries not to feel too much guilt over the young girl’s death; bringing _sekens_ into battle is, after all, how they’re trained.  Warriors only learn through experience, and Tris was ready.  Already, she’d taken the lives of two Azgeda scouts who turned hostile in a border skirmish.  She was promising.  Anya had no reason to fear for her life any more than she already might have; without the interference of Skaikru _tek,_ she would have been just fine.  

There is a loud clatter of a sword on paving stones, and a shout drags Anya out of her memories.  

“Clarke!  Anya!  Hey!”  It’s Octavia, who’s perched on the edge of the arena seats beside Lincoln.  By the looks of it, it’s not her round to fight; there are so many _sekens_ in attendance that the arena can’t hold them all at once.  They’ll be taking sparring matches in turns.  

“Hi, Octavia,” Clarke replies with an amused edge to her voice, and the two of them make their way over to where the young couple is sitting.  Lincoln greets them amicably, but with a great deal less wild enthusiasm; he looks vaguely amused at Octavia, who is standing on the bleachers waving her hands as she chatters away.  

“ — and Indra says my form is improving, which must mean that it actually is, because yesterday I tried a really simple move and she told me that I looked like a warthog with a tree stuck up its ass, so I think I really am getting better,” Octavia is finishing telling Clarke.  Clarke is listening with her lips pressed hard together to keep from laughing; Octavia’s enthusiasm is so extreme that her flailing arms have already narrowly avoided passing warriors’ heads.  Anya decides that what she lacks in finesse, she makes up for in spunk.  Perhaps honing her skills won’t be necessary so long as they keep her talking — her brandishing will take the heads off any Maunon who come near.

Then Anya is forced to duck as the young Alpha’s water canteen nearly dents her skull, and she considers that perhaps Indra has a point, after all.  

“You would do well to listen to your _fos,”_ she says sternly as she straightens back up, drawing the group’s attention.  “Indra has been training _sekens_ since before you were born.  If she says you look like a warthog, you look like a warthog.”  She tries to keep a straight face for the sake of appearing disapproving, but a snicker from Clarke causes her lips to twitch upwards in spite of herself.  Lincoln is grinning; Octavia looks suspicious.

“Oh yeah?” she challenges.  There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that Anya knows can bode no good.  “Who else has she trained?”  

“Callum, for starters,” Lincoln supplies from the bench.  “But she also trained Heda’s _fos,_ so indirectly, she is responsible for Heda’s victory in the Conclave.”  It takes Clarke a moment, but Octavia’s eyes widen at Anya.  

 _“You?”_  Octavia sounds positively delighted in spite of her clear disbelief. _“You_ were Indra’s _seken?_  No _way._  Oh, this is the greatest thing I’ve heard all day.  I bet Indra has _so_ much shit on you.  I have to ask her about this; there’s no _way_ you haven’t gotten up to some serious shenanigans . . .” 

“You do, and I’ll tell Bellamy about the naked tree fort episode,” Lincoln interjects threateningly.  It’s sufficient to quell Octavia, who pretends to sulk unconvincingly.  Clarke looks like she quite wishes she had never heard of the naked tree fort episode; Anya is inclined to agree with her.

“Well, I think that’s our cue,” Clarke says quickly when Octavia looks like she’s preparing to protest.  “We’ve seen a lot of the village, so I think Anya and I are going to go back to the war tent and start going over things with Heda while we wait for the delegates to arrive.”  Octavia’s sulk disappears in an instant, transformed instead into a slight grimace.

“Oh no, no,” she counters emphatically.  “Get out of here and go bathe.  My mated nose may be biased, but you two reek.”  Clarke looks highly affronted at the accusation; Anya can feel her own face arrange itself haughtily to mimic her.  

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ Clarke demands.  Octavia retrieves her water canteen and begins to gather up her possessions, shaking her head.

“Don’t be so offended, Griffin,” she snorts.  “Be honest.  You haven’t bathed since you got sick; you smell like sweaty Omega.  And _you.”_  She turns on Anya.  “Your pheromones are like, essentially visible.  Like holy shit, they’re choking me, and I’m only into being on the other end of that.  Both of you, for god’s sake, go wash off before you send the entire War Council into a frenzy.  Heda won’t thank you for starting a war right under her nose on top of the one we already have to fight.”  

“Actually, she’s right,” Lincoln agrees conversationally, his Beta nose wrinkled in disgust.  “You two stink.”  Indignant, Clarke opens her mouth to counter him, but seeing Octavia’s smirk growing wider, Anya beats her to it.  

“I believe I see Indra coming,” she invents with a nod towards the other end of the arena.  “Better get back into it before she decides you need a better nickname.”  Octavia’s eyes light up with mischief; swinging her sword back into the air, she beckons to Lincoln.

“Perfect,” she declares.  “Come on, Linc.  I’m going to go ask Indra if Anya ever got in trouble as a teenager.  There’s a good story in there about jobi nuts, or I’m a pauna’s ass.  Bye Griff, bye Cheekbones!  Don’t forget to take a bath!”  With that, she’s clattering down the arena steps, Lincoln in tow, scattering warriors as she goes.    
   
“I thought that might get her to leave us alone,” Anya comments as Octavia goes tearing off in search of her mentor.  She’s thinking, though; much as the younger Alpha’s comments are in jest, Octavia has a point.  They _do_ stink.  To Anya it’s not unpleasant — it’s merely her own scent and Clarke’s, though perhaps a little magnified — but she understands what Octavia means.  To the Alpha ambassadors who are about to fill the cramped confines of Lexa’s war tent, their combined scent will be a flame to dynamite. The scent of an unmated Omega layered with Anya’s Alpha aggression will send them into chaos.

“Thank you for sacrificing your dignity for the cause.” 

* * *

The warmth of the water curls up Clarke’s legs, steam furling in tendrils across her skin and heating the hollows of her bones that shake already with need.

A few hours after waking, and Clarke’s body is getting out of control.

They’re above the village at a hot spring that Anya knows of, the easiest place to bathe that doesn’t involve a two mile round-trip hike to the freezing river and back.  A grove of aspens shelters the deep pools.  The rustling leaves throw speckled sunlight into the sparkling water, where it reflects back, dancing prism-like along the rocks in fragile spines of color.  The stones are worn smooth by time and use; they form ledges and basins among the pools, forming a series of benches that reminds Clarke of the pictures she’s seen of Old Earth Turkish baths.  According to Anya, it’s usually a highly popular gathering place, but with everyone consumed with war preparations, it’s completely deserted.  With the aspens acting as a barrier between the water and the hustle and bustle of the village, it’s quiet in a way that is completely unfamiliar to Clarke.  

Unfamiliar, too, is the feeling that is consuming her more with every passing moment.  There is heat building in Clarke’s belly, a burning pit of deep-seated need that sends fire through her blood.  With every minute, the coil burns brighter, until it’s all she can do to keep her head on her shoulders and her body from flying apart.  

Anya isn’t exactly helping.  

They’ve been here twenty minutes already, and still Clarke is not used to the sight of her in so little attire.  They’ve seen each other like this before, for goodness’s sake, and yet Clarke can’t seem to tear her eyes away.  In the sunlight, Anya is even more stunning than usual.  She’s lean and golden-skinned and utterly, painfully gorgeous.  

Clarke finds herself wondering, not for the first time, just how it’s possible that Anya has no mate.  An Alpha of her rank and beauty doesn’t go unmated unless by choice, especially not at her age.  With her strength and passion and undeniable tenderness, Clarke can’t imagine how it can be that she has no one.  She should have had a mate long before Clarke fell from the sky into her waiting arms.  

Not that Clarke’s complaining, but she’s curious.  She wants to _know_ Anya, to learn her fears and wants and deepest dreams.  It feels like something out of one of the old rom-coms salvaged on the Ark, but Clarke feels it nonetheless.  The more she knows, the better-suited she can be to tend to the Alpha and give her all the things she wishes so desperately to give.

The more she knows, the better of a mate she can be to her Alpha.  

For Anya _is_ her Alpha; there is no longer any doubt in her mind about that.  It’s a deliriously wonderful twist of fate, and Clarke won’t question the judgement of whatever gods have delivered Anya to her, but she can’t help being curious all the same.  For Anya to be alone at this age means that she has chosen her solitude.  She wants to know why, but above all else, Clarke yearns to rectify it.  For all of Anya’s bravado, it is clear to her that the Alpha is lonely.  

She can see it in her eyes, in the hope and eagerness and fumbling earnestness that Anya displays any time Clarke shows her even a small measure of affection.  In moments when Clarke needs her most, she delivers with grace and without hesitation.  It occurs to Clarke that Anya is walking a fine edge; she is settled and confident in her doting Alpha dominance while simultaneously showing clear disbelief at the idea that Clarke might want that dizzying energy directed at her.

It’s endearing, and Clarke understands why she’s being tentative in the face of war, but at the same time, she just wants Anya to _claim_ her already.  

“Klark, you understand that the water is _warm,_ _sha?”_  Anya breaks into her reverie, and Clarke refocuses to find the Alpha’s sparkling eyes focused on her from a short distance out in the water.  She herself is still seated on a ledge with her feet dangling in, but Anya is submerged almost to her shoulders.  “There are no water snakes here,” she adds with a hint of mirth.  Despite the teasing, Clarke cannot help but smile.

“I know,” she grants, though she makes no move to sink deeper into the water.  The temperature is, in fact, quite lovely, but between the lingering weakness of Omega fever and the relative newness of her ability to swim, she’s not entirely confident in her ability to stay afloat.  Seeing Anya’s prompting look, she divulges as much, and watches Anya’s expression go from questioning to determined.  

“Have I not told you before that I will not let you drown?” is her only pointed reply.  Clarke considers that for a moment.  It’s not that she doesn’t _want_ to be in the water with Anya — quite the opposite, in fact — but she’s a little wary of what her body might do if they’re in such close contact.

It’s a concern that’s rendered moot, however, when Anya takes the opportunity to duck under the water, reemerging right between Clarke’s knees.  

One look, and all of Clarke’s protests die on her lips at the sight of the Alpha, dripping wet and sunlit from head to toe.  In the quiet grove of aspens, the only sound is that of the dripping water and Clarke’s own, stuttering pulse.  The glittering look in Anya’s eyes is doing something funny to her heart.

“Come in with me,” Anya murmurs, and all of Clarke’s perfectly sound, logical reasons for keeping her distance leave her head.  Suddenly, she can’t even remember why she isn’t in the water in the first place.  Anya’s low, persuasive voice and fluttering eyelashes make her forget everything that exists outside of the space between them.  How is Clarke supposed to concentrate on anything when Anya’s looking at her like that?

“Okay,” she finds herself replying, and scoots back a bit on the bench to remove her shirt.  Though the water is warm, the early autumn air carries a bite, and Clarke can’t stop a shiver from raising goosebumps on her skin.  

In front of her, Anya has gone still.  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why; her eyes are glued to Clarke’s body, tracing up and down lines of pale skin.  There’s a darkness building in their depths.  It’s something a little like reverence, but also a lot like hunger.  Being on the receiving end of a gaze so intense is almost unsettling, and beneath it, Clarke squirms a little.  

A hand on her ribs arrests her movement as completely as though she has been turned to stone.  

Anya’s fingertips are light where they make contact, tracing the scar that curves between the bones of her ribcage.  The point where their skin meets feels like the electric socket that Clarke once got shocked by on the Ark; tingly, sharp, and startling.  It seizes her attention in an instant and blacks out everything else, drawing her mind to a single point of concentration like it’s the last point of gravity keeping her on Earth.  The water that clings to Anya’s fingers is first cold, and then hot beneath the fingers that she presses into Clarke’s skin. 

The sensation of fingertips tracing slowly, reverently over her ribs makes Clarke shudder.  

“I am sorry that I hurt you.”  When Anya looks up, her expression is mournful in a way that nudges an ache into Clarke’s chest.  “You were my enemy, and I was doing what I thought best, but I . . .” she trails off; her hand uncurls and presses firmly into Clarke’s side.  Something about the gesture feels almost protective.  

“It’s all right.”  Clarke doesn’t know that she’s whispering until the words are out her mouth; there is no one else around, but something about the words feels appropriate to intimacy.  “I know you would never hurt me now.”  She _does_ know it, whatever Abby and the rest of Skaikru might think.  The same ancient instinct that guides her breath and heartbeat tells her that Anya would die sooner than she would do her Omega harm.  

“I would not,” Anya agrees.  Her eyes are focused on her hand, which is still pressed over the scar left by their fight almost two weeks ago.  “But that does not make it right.  You have been mistreated all your life; it is the very reason you fell ill.  I am sorry that I added to it.”  Despite herself, Clarke lets out a chuckle.

“You didn’t beat me up because I’m an _Omega,”_ she points out meaningfully.  “Unless you have something to tell me, in which case this alliance just suddenly got a whole lot different.  And don’t tell me you added to it,” she continues when Anya finally meets her eyes with a look that she can sense means she’s about to retort with something defensive.  “Are you kidding me?  Anya, you’re the reason I got _better,_ aren’t you?  All you’ve done since that day is be good to me.  Hell, if Octavia explained it correctly, you’re the reason my body even got healthy enough to get sick in the first place . . . if that makes any sense.”  Anya’s gaze is still troubled, but she nods reluctantly.

“It does,” she agrees lightly, though her touch, still pressing heat into Clarke’s side, is anything but light.  “Once you have gotten enough food into you, as long as the Alphas around you treat you with kindness, your body will recover.  Your heats are not lost to you yet; once you have regained your strength, they will come back.”  At that, though touched by the sentiment, Clarke only shrugs.  

“I mean, I wouldn’t know,” she says offhandedly.  “It’s not like I’ve had one before, so I don’t exactly have anything to compare it to.”  Distracted as she is by the way Anya’s touch is sending butterflies ricocheting around her stomach, it takes her a moment to pick up on the fact that the Alpha is watching her with her lips slightly parted in shock.  “What?” she asks. 

“You — ” Anya starts, then swallows hard.  “You have never had a heat?”  She looks positively upset by the information.  Clarke frowns a little, but otherwise doesn’t react.  

“Yeah, I mean, no, I haven’t,” she clarifies.  “I know Indra told you about the suppressants we had on the Ark, right?  They kept us from going into heat, and they started giving them to us as soon as we presented, so I got put on the pills before I ever had one.  They took me off of them when I was in prison, but they didn’t feed us very well in there, so I didn’t have one afterward, either.”  Anya’s expression remains unreadable, but she’s watching Clarke in a way that makes the Omega feel distinctly as though she’s been subject to some great act of injustice without quite knowing what it is.

“You could not have refused to take the medication?” Anya questions.  From her scent, she remains calm, but her eyes are troubled.  

Clarke lets out a derisive sound.

“Yeah, not likely,” she snorts.  “Being a Council member’s daughter had its benefits, but it wouldn’t have protected me that far.”  Anya frowns.

“What do you mean?”  Her concern at this point is almost palpable; she’s agitated in a way that is making her slim shoulders bunch up.  Seeing it, Clarke itches to soothe her.  Seeing Anya distressed makes her feel like hitting something.  It’s as though the feelings are somehow connected; Anya’s anxiety resonates in Clarke’s chest as though it is her own.

“Any Omega who went into heat on the Ark was floated,” is her explanation.  She makes sure to release a little wave of calming pheromones with the words; if Anya gets more stressed, she thinks that both of them might combust.  

“Floated?”  Anya is puzzled.

“Executed,” Clarke supplies, “within ten days.”  

Anya’s eyes widen.  

“They would kill an Omega for something so natural?” she whispers, and her voice is tight.  “For something your body was made to do?”  She looks positively horrified.  Clarke nods.  

“There wasn’t enough life support for Omegas to go around reproducing like that.  I guess they figured we couldn’t control ourselves, so we were all put on suppressants — except for those of us in the Sky Box; they wouldn’t waste resources on us like that.”  She is startled when Anya extends her hand and seizes her by the arm, tugging her into her body and clutching her fiercely to her with a low growl.  A hand comes up to tighten in her hair, the other slung protectively about her waist.  The Alpha buries her nose in the side of Clarke’s neck and breathes her scent in deeply as she speaks, teeth clenched.

“An Omega — is not — a _waste,”_ she grits out fiercely.  “An Omega is rare and precious and a gift to be _cherished.”_  In her arms, Clarke shrugs, though her eyes have fluttered closed at the contact.

“They didn’t see it that way,” she says quietly.  An inexplicable lump has risen in her throat.  Anya’s arms release her just enough for her to grip the Omega by the upper arms and stare purposefully into her eyes.

“A heat is special,” she tells her firmly, with words choked by what sounds a lot like reverence.  Her hands are hot against Clarke’s skin.  “It is something that brings joy; an opportunity for mates to bond and share in their pleasure.  Ill and injured Omegas do not have heats; it ensures that no pup can be brought into life when the one who bears them is unhealthy or abused.  Pups are important to us; our Omegas are important to us.”  Her voices has dropped significantly with her urgency, as though she’s pleading with Clarke to understand.  As she speaks, her fingertips dig deeper into Clarke’s skin as if to press the two of them into one being.  “I do not think you realize, Klark,” Anya continues in a lower murmur, “what an incredible gift you are.”  Her free hand drifts upward to cradle Clarke’s jaw tenderly, brushing her thumb across a hot cheek.  

Warmed to the bone by the loving words, Clarke can’t help but nuzzle into the touch; she brushes her nose against Anya’s wrist where the Alpha’s scent is strongest.  For a moment, the movement feels a little stiff.  Then Anya’s other hand slides around to press with her full palm in the place where Clarke’s spine dips, and Clarke is gone.

The feeling of Anya’s lips on hers, hot and soft and reverent, is enough to make her body go weak.  

Clarke is enveloped; wrapped up so securely in Anya’s arms, the Alpha kissing her desperately, possessively, she can’t even move to resist.  She can’t even draw breath, trusting in her body to keep on steadily even as she sinks into the warmth and tenderness and need of Anya’s kiss.  All that she knows is the Alpha around her, on her, against her; she can hardly even move to respond when she is being so gently, utterly consumed.  

It is a tender sort of taking, intense and fiery yet somehow delicate in its power.  Anya is holding her so carefully, Clarke caught up in the immense steadiness of her embrace. With Clarke’s head cradled in her hands, she guides her Omega deeper, intensely, stoking a fire in her belly that curls up through her bones and into her heart.  Soft fingers play up and down her spine, sending shivers through the Omega’s body.  A press nearer, followed by the Alpha curling her tongue around hers, and Clarke melts into her with a whimper.  

When at last they pull apart, Clarke is gasping against her lips, trembling in a way that makes her limbs feel ready to give in.  She wants to curl into Anya, to wrap herself around her Alpha until they are hopelessly intertwined and never let go.  Surely, in Anya’s arms, there can be nothing but comfort and pleasure and joy.

And so, with a glance up at the bright eyes that watch her with such longing, Clarke leans in and allows Anya to pull her from the rock into deeper water.  

This is the safest that Clarke has ever felt.  Anya’s arms are sturdy, her body a safe haven for Clarke to burrow into and find rest.  Between her touch and the soothing heat of the water, Clarke finds herself more relaxed than she has been in days.  The fact of the approaching war hardly seems relevant when her Alpha is here offering such comfort. This is the sort of peace that she could never have imagined having on the Ark.   

On the Ark, she would be dead.  It’s a shocking revelation to consider from her current position, feeling so safe and secure and content.  Her body is entwined with a powerful and devoted Alpha; she is well-fed, comparatively healthy, and treated with respect.  The bright, calm water, the brilliant sky, the rustling leaves — all are things that a month ago, Clarke could never have dreamed of having for herself.  Earth has offered her more in a month than the Ark ever did in eighteen years of life.  

Once this war is over, Clarke intends to spend more moments like this.  She wants the time to enjoy Earth for what it has to offer — food and company and beauty and peace. They are too consumed right now by war preparations to allow for many moments like this, so Clarke is going to take them when they’re offered.  

A light, floaty sensation comes to her in a wave.  It is fleeting, but bright.  So fully absorbed in Anya, it takes her a moment to understand it, but when she finally registers its meaning, she feels her heart flutter.

Clarke is happy.  

It’s a feeling she hasn’t known since before Jake was arrested.  After he learned of the flaw in the Ark’s life support systems, every day has been filled with fear and anger and the struggle for survival.  

They still have a war to fight, but Clarke thinks that maybe, when it’s over, she might have a way to be happy again.  

Against Anya’s chest, she closes her eyes and allows herself to drift.  The soft air settles, and her breathing eases with the rocking motion of the water against her spine.

“You are calm.”  Anya’s murmur comes after a long bout of easy silence.  Her face must be buried in the Omega’s hair; Clarke can feel her lips move against the crown of her head.  Feeling almost kittenish in her comfort, she nuzzles in closer with a small sigh.

“You’re comfortable,” she returns in a mumble.  “And the water’s nice.”  She feels more than hears Anya’s hum.  

“Some say these waters have the power to heal,” she comments; it comes out a little muffled by Clarke’s hair.  “It is why I brought you here.”  She says it lightly, but Clarke feels the way her hands press a little deeper into her ribs.

“My arrow wounds are doing well,” she remarks.  

“I did not mean your injuries.”  Anya does not elaborate, but Clarke feels a swoop of recognition at the comment.  Not for the first time, it occurs to her just how devoted Anya is to seeing her heal and grow.  She has done so much for Clarke only in the past two weeks.  Saving the Alpha’s life a couple of times probably makes them even, but Clarke can’t help but feel that she could be doing more for her in return.  Anya is so giving; she deserves someone who will be devoted to her in equal measure.  Just as Anya insists that Omegas ought to be treated well, Clarke thinks that it goes both ways.  An Alpha who is so kind and attentive deserves to be rewarded and doted upon by an Omega.  She deserves loyalty and tenderness in return, the kind of attention that Clarke so loves to give.  

It occurs to Clarke that maybe there is something she can do.  

“Octavia said that the Trikru tell stories,” she blurts out.  It’s a bit of a struggle to extricate herself enough to look Anya in the eyes, but she manages it with a little finagling. “She told me that Lincoln said mythology is really important to your people, and that you tell stories about spirits and healing and reincarnation and everyone puts their faith in them.”  

“That is true,” Anya confirms.  She looks a little puzzled, but not displeased at Clarke’s revelation of this knowledge.  “We tell them to our _yongons_ to teach them, and to each other when we have grown to give each other faith and purpose.  Warriors, especially.”  Clarke studies her.

“Will you tell me one?”  Anya’s eyes show nothing but surprise before settling into a soft sort of pleased glow.

“I would be honored, _skaifaya,_ but we will be needed back soon.  We have not yet bathed,” she points out.  Clarke shrugs.

“You said we should wash our hair,” she supplies.  “I could wash yours for you while you tell me one.”  At that, Anya’s expression smoothes into a rare, true smile.  The effect is catching; Clarke can’t help but mimic her shyly, hoping that she hasn’t pushed too far.

She should know better by now.

“I would like that,” Anya agrees softly.  “But only if you will allow me to braid yours.”  Catching Clarke’s questioning look, she elaborates, “Leaders and warriors wear breads in their hair into battle to symbolize their status.  As the ambassador of your people, it is customary for you to wear them, and for a mate or an attendant to aid you.”   _Which are you,_ Clarke wants to ask, but she doesn’t; the answer, if not apparent before, has become quite obvious.  Still, she wants to eventually hear Anya acknowledge it out loud.  

“All’s fair in love and war,” Clarke says instead unthinkingly, and then immediately decides that that was worse.  The confused tilt of Anya’s head, painfully endearing, doesn’t sway her opinion.

“That is entirely false,” the Alpha muses.  “We have a code of honor, of course, but the concept of war itself is definitively unfair, and as for love — ”

“No, never mind, you’re totally right; stupid Old Earth idioms,” Clarke hurries to intercept her before she carries things too far.  The springs may be deserted, but they’re still in a relatively public setting, and if they don’t get a handle on themselves, the War Council is going to be missing two members.  Just what they need is for Lexa to send out a search party and expose them to everyone all at once.  “Here; hand me that soap you bought and I can start.  You’re right that we need to get going, and I want to hear the whole story.”  This is the kind of thing that she’s living for these days: moments alone with Anya learning about her culture.  She’ll take all that she can get.

Moving through the water with Clarke’s weight still solid against her chest, Anya retrieves the soap from a nearby ledge before moving to deposit Clarke on her previous bench-like perch.  The minute she’s set down, Clarke’s entire body cries out in protest at the loss of contact.  The warm water swirls cold into the places where Anya was pressed against her as the steady simmering of her blood dies down, only to flare up again with something almost like itchiness.  It feels achy and insistent, and Clarke has to bite her lip to stop herself from letting out a pitiful whimper of protest.  She’s been battling a strange sensation all day, a burning in her veins that generates combined neediness and the impulse to jump anything and everything in sight.  Touching Anya, she has quickly discovered, seems to be the only relief.  

Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.  Clarke has hardly gotten a chance to pout before Anya is back, turning around in the water so that her back is to the Omega and pressing into the space between her knees.  Clarke’s legs tighten around her instinctively to keep her close; as her body’s tension eases, she hears Anya let out a low chuckle.  

 _“Moba, strikon,”_ she apologizes with a hint of teasing; Clarke can’t see her face, but she can sense the Alpha’s smugness at knowing she was so quickly missed.  She feels her cheeks flare a little at the obviousness of her reaction, but she can’t help teasing a little in kind. 

 _“Yu nou laik moba, Giva.”_  At this angle, it’s hard for Anya to turn to her, so she cranes her neck back instead.  Upside down, Clarke sees her quick blink of surprise, followed by another rare smile.  Warmth settles in her chest at the recognition that the normally reserved Alpha has granted her not one, but two displays of genuinely enjoying her presence.  Anya’s smile makes her brain and heart go fuzzy. 

“Perhaps I am not that sorry,” Anya concedes.  There’s a spark of something soft in her eyes that looks suspiciously like fondness, so Clarke grips her hair and uses it to steer her head back into position before the butterflies in her stomach can assert their presence too strongly. 

“Not yet you’re not,” she threatens good-naturedly.  “I’ve never washed anyone’s hair before, so you’re my guinea pig.  The potential for mishap here is pretty significant.”  When Anya only chuckles again, she narrows her eyes at the back of the Alpha’s head.  “You laugh now,” she warns, “but I’m not kidding; that threat was only half fake.”  Anya laughs quietly; rolls her head to crack her neck.

“In that case, I leave my fate to your incapable hands,” she teases.  “I trust you, _strik Treja.”_  Beneath the playfulness, there’s a quiet undercurrent of seriousness that tugs at Clarke’s heart.  The sensation of her heart’s constriction is distracting; feeling suddenly disarmed, she fiddles with the damp ends of Anya’s hair.  

“You know, someday you’re going to have to explain all these nicknames you keep giving me,” she says after a quiet moment of contemplation.  Anya merely hums as she tilts her head back into the Omega’s touch.

“Someday,” she agrees.  Clarke curls her fingers in tighter.

“Good.  Now stop moving and start telling your story before Lexa sends the whole Council after us.”  She gives a little tug to a strand of Anya’s hair for emphasis.  A quiet, sharp inhale gives her pause; Anya has tensed a minuscule amount, the smallest indication of a reaction.  For a moment, Clarke hesitates, caught between wanting to apologize and wanting to hear that little noise again.  Anya so rarely yields even an involuntary physical reaction; that she is letting herself show it, show _Clarke,_ is an honor of which Clarke feels distinctly unworthy.  

She curbs her impulse to speak as she lathers her hands with soap — some syrupy concoction that yields a surprising amount of suds — focusing on the task before her.  Maybe if she devotes all of her attention to what she’s doing, she won’t feel quite so tempted to just push Anya into the water and have her way with her right here and now.  

She should be so lucky.

Her fingers slide back into Anya’s hair, twisting through the snarled curls up to the roots.  They’re dark — a little darker than she’s noticed before.  Anya’s hair is beautiful, all swirls of auburn and gold highlighted with streaks from the sun.  Clarke wonders how she hasn’t noticed before — she’s known that Anya is beautiful, of course, but rarely has she been afforded an opportunity to take in the beauty of the woman to whom she has grown so startlingly close in the past weeks.  

Anya is gorgeous.  She’s leonine and graceful, fierce, but Clarke finds that at a closer glance, there are facets of her that seem almost delicate in their beauty.  Not fragile, not at all, but elegantly formed; as perfect as though crafted by some otherworldly being.  She’s stunning, and Clarke still can’t fathom that she’s allowed to touch her.  The trust that Anya is placing in Clarke, to offer her the gift of such an opportunity, takes Clarke’s breath away.  She wants to devote hours to unraveling the wonders of this incredible, indescribable Alpha.  

She cradles Anya’s head in her hands, taking a moment to knead and press into the base of her skull with her thumbs.  The reaction is immediate: Anya lets her head fall back with a soft groan of contentment, her body relaxing between the grip of Clarke’s thighs.  

“I do not need the healing waters, Klark, so long as I have your hands,” she murmurs appreciatively.  Clarke closes her eyes against the weight of the emotions that are rising in her chest, feeling the delicate curve of Anya’s neck warm beneath her fingertips.

“I thought you said they didn’t heal physical wounds,” she points out softly.  Her palm curves around the Alpha’s neck, skin soft against her own.  She can feel Anya shake her head into her hands.

“They do not,” she affirms, and Clarke forces herself to ignore the edge of a cracked sigh of pleasure in her voice.  “But your hands, _skaifaya,_ could heal any hurt.  They could bring us back to life as these waters did after Praimfaya.”  The image fills Clarke’s mind, unbidden, of a crowded, horrible room, and Anya’s haunting eyes tortured and empty behind the bars of a locked cage.  The idea of healing every ill, she finds, is not unappealing.

“What was Praimfaya?” she asks, guiding a little water into Anya’s curls.  There is no immediate response; a peek through her eyelashes shows Anya pursing her lips in concentration.  Sensing that she is considering — though what, she doesn’t know — Clarke doesn’t press her.

“We burn our dead after battle,” is the unexpected response after a minute of silence.  “It is our way of honoring them while also giving way to those that still live.  From their ashes, new lives will arise, and we will hope to be better than before, _sha?”_

 _“Sha,”_ Clarke murmurs automatically, too absorbed to provide a proper response.  Anya hums an affirmative, her eyes still gently closed.

“When the world burned in Praimfaya, there was death before the rebirth,” she elaborates.  “Hellfire raged, and when it ended, those who were left were barely alive.  Much of the earth was barren and scorched, and there was no light but for the flames that lit the ash in the sky.  Even when the ash cleared, it seemed there was nothing left but ruin.”  Anya’s voice has taken on the soft, almost sing-song quality that comes with reciting a poem or prayer.  As Clarke cards her fingers through soft hair, she is caught up between the poetic violence of the words and the reverence with which they are uttered.  

It seems a little odd to speak of the destruction of civilization as something to be revered, but she tries to hold herself in the minds of those who grew up on Earth.  Life on the ground has birthed mythologies and spirituality that it is her duty to respect.  More than that, they are a facet of the life to which she hopes to eventually join herself, and she feels drawn to the deep roots of culture almost as much as to the woman who is reciting them to her.

“The earth was left burned and poisoned.  For those who escaped the flames, survival was punishing.  They had been spared from the fires, but the essence of life seemed to have been ripped from the world.  Survivors scattered, banding together and fighting over the little life that remained.”  As Clarke’s fingers press into a sensitive spot on her temple, Anya pauses, a little catch in her breath almost rumbling into a purr.  Fully absorbed in the storytelling, Clarke stills, enthralled, and waits for her to go on.  

It’s a moment before Anya seems to gather herself from her distraction, and after a slight hesitation, Clarke prompts her in a fascinated murmur, low so as to not disturb the sacred hush the telling of the fable has brought.

“What did they do?”  She seems to take Anya a little by surprise; the Alpha’s eyes flutter half-open as she blinks herself back into concentration.

“There were traveling stars,” she muses after a beat of languid breath.  “Many of them that had been seen circling the earth since the fires first began.  They traveled day and night overheard, always circling back around.  Their patterns were predictable in a life that had become chaos, and after a time, the survivors began to see them as a guiding power.”  Anya continues, not seeming to notice that Clarke’s hands have ceased to move.  “One night, nearly two summers after the bombs first fell, the scattered clans saw something strange occurring in the sky.  The traveling stars were moving together, growing closer and closer until at last they seemed to merge.  As the night went on, it occurred eleven times, one for every hour of the dark.  Near dawn, another began to draw near.  It moved as the others did, slipping closer to the spot where they all seemed to have joined.  But then something changed — it bloomed brighter, fiercer than the others, like the last light of the sun before the dark.”  

 _"Unity Day.”_  Clarke’s whisper breaks the thread of Anya’s concentration at last.  Craning her neck, the Alpha turns her gaze upon her with a furrowed brow.  

“You have spoken of this _Unity Day_ before,” she remarks in surprise.  “If I am not mistaken, it was — ”

“The day we met,” Clarke supplies.  Their eyes have locked, drawn by a gravity that seems to push and pull all at once until its own resistance threatens to tear it apart.  “I remember.  It was a holiday for us; it marks the day that the twelve stations joined together and formed the Ark.  That’s the story we tell children, anyway — there were really thirteen, but something went wrong, and Polaris was blasted out of the sky.  That would have been the bright light your people saw.”  Anya is watching her with an attentiveness that almost feels unwarranted.  Clarke doesn’t feel wrought with the same reverence of history and meditative storytelling.  The tale only brings up more realizations of everything the leaders of the Ark have kept from their people for almost a century.  She doesn’t see how this has anything to do with whatever mythological fabric bound up the lost survivors of the end of the world.  

“It is an important day for our people, too,” Anya contributes as though she is privy to Clarke’s thoughts.  “It marks the beginning of Heda’s line and the unification of the survivors into what were to become the clans.  As the dawn rose, Bekka Pramheda descended to Earth and led the survivors here to their salvation.”  When Clarke only stares, Anya elaborates, “Bekka Pramheda was the first of Heda’s line, the one to form the clans and begin the rebuilding of Polis and Tondisi.”  Clarke’s mind is racing a mile a minute.

“The First Commander came from the sky?” she manages to ask.  Anya nods solemnly.

 _“Sha,”_ she confirms.  “And when she died, her spirit found the new Commander, and all the Commanders after that.  Eternally, throughout time, the spirit of the Commander is reincarnated in the body of the _natblida_ child who is victorious in the Conclave.  All lead with wisdom and honor, but none so far with wisdom and honor as great as that of Lexa.  Not even Bekka Pramheda, who led the survivors here to Tondisi and found the waters that healed them.  Every ill brought by the fire was banished, and the clans found that the springs’ waters healed too the broken earth and nourished back to life the last it had to offer them.  Heda visits it often when she can, and pays it her respects, for it brings healing and wisdom to all it touches.  Even when nothing else remains to us, they are three: Heda, and the earth, and the water that brought them both to life.”  

“That’s why there are three symbols,” Clarke realizes aloud.  “The Trikru — your clan sign is three symbols intertwined.”  Anya’s smile is softer than the water that soothes their skin.  

“The sacred triad,” she agrees, “bound by forces far beyond our comprehension.”  A strange, hollow feeling rises in Clarke’s chest, almost nostalgic; not an unpleasant awareness, but one that makes her shiver in the same way that the art of the Old World always has.  

“You’re saying Heda is like a god,” she says slowly, and can’t help a measure of incredulity from creeping into her voice.  Anya’s eyes glimmer up at her like she knows exactly what she’s thinking.  

“Yes,” she answers easily.  Closing her palms around the soap lather, Clarke cannot help herself.

“But that’s — Bekka was from the Ark; the First Commander wasn’t — ” she breaks herself off, frustrated, not wanting to discount the steady faith in Anya’s conviction but feeling disloyal to her own firm belief in everything she knows.  

Anya’s gaze traps her in her flustered uncertainty and holds her there, unyielding.    

“How do you know?” she counters.  Clarke bites her lip, feeling her confusion simmer without anywhere to direct it.  What Anya is suggesting feels impossible, but she’s also right.  She _doesn’t_ know.  It’s the basis of every argument ever held over religion.  This isn’t quite religion, not in the ways of Old Earth, but the foundation is the same.

“Then what’s to say that any of us aren’t gods?” is the only argument she can come up with in response.  It isn’t quite what she means to protest with, but it will suffice.  What she doesn’t know how to articulate is the fact that it could be true.  It _can’t_ be, but then again, so much of what Clarke has seen in the past two months has challenged everything she thought she knew.  If monsters like those below them in the mountain are real, perhaps it isn’t so wrong to wonder if the gods above them might be, too.  

Anya presses back into her hands like a wave into the shore.

“You too fell from the stars and command your people to salvation, _Skai Klark,”_ she says meaningfully.  “You tell me.”  

Clarke’s jaw works against the air in her lungs.  For a moment, stricken, she struggles to find a suitable response.

Then, against her own volition, her shoulders fall.  Gravity seems to pull her in; as though through the force of a magnet, she curls herself loosely over Anya with a tired sigh. The quick inhale that follows brings into her nose the scent of fresh water, swept up with soap and sunshine and the deep, earthy scent that is her Alpha’s alone.    
“All I want is peace.”  She can’t contain the weariness threading through every word.  “I didn’t want to start a war, or have to end it.  We were sent to the ground to try to find a home, and I just want — ”   _A home.  Belonging.  You._

There is a swirling of the water as the Alpha turns, shifting back to face her.  Anya’s hands, bathed by water droplets, rise up to cradle her temples.  Clarke’s eyes flutter unwittingly closed at the touch.  

“For now, you must lead your people,” Anya tells her solemnly.  “Then, when at last the mountain has fallen and our people have been returned to us, there will be nothing but time and joy with which to fill it.  You _will_ find a home here, Klark,” she continues, with such earnestness that Clarke opens her eyes again to see the intensity of the expression on Anya’s face.  “I will make sure of it.”  Clarke lets her eyes burn into hers.

“And you?” she asks.  “What do you wish for?”  Perhaps it’s the looming threat of war that spurs her boldness; perhaps it is only need.  

Anya swallows hard, and for the first time, Clarke sees nervousness in the set of her lips.  

 _“Ai — ”_ Anya starts, but her voice is rough and cracked.  She’s forced to pause a moment to clear her throat, and when she resumes, she looks even less confident than before. “I have . . . lost much,” she confesses.  Her eyes burn autumn-bright into Clarke’s, and their depths are broken in a way that makes Clarke want to coo and press even closer until the Alpha is enveloped in comfort.  “The war against Azgeda took much from us, Leksa and I, and since then . . . it has been difficult to be happy the way I was before.” The lack of a direct confession says enough on its own; Clarke feels the jolt of recognition like a bone-deep shock.  

Automatically, her eyes flicker to the curve of Anya’s neck.  A lost mate’s mark fades and leaves no visible sign, but she can’t help searching anyway, trying to catch confirmation in the tiny flutter of Anya’s pulse.  Nothing mars the golden skin, but the way that Anya stiffens automatically beneath her gaze tells her all she needs to know.  

When she looks back to her Alpha, Anya is watching her with her jaw set as though against pain.  The sight of it fills Clarke with a sense of grief that almost feels like her own; the Alpha’s expression is tense, almost fearful.  The effect is heartbreaking.

“You lost your mate.”  It isn’t a question, but Clarke tries to keep her voice gentle.  Anya swallows an inhale.  All of a sudden, something within her face is cracking, as though the chink in the armor has been hit and suddenly all has begun to break.  

“Seven winters ago,” she confirms shakily.  The corners of her eyes have begun to glint with the swelling of tears.  At the sight of it, Clarke’s body seems to cry out in protest, the sight of her Alpha’s grief striking her like physical pain.  It feels inconsequential that the root of the distress is the person who, for all intents and purposes, once held Anya’s heart.  Perhaps, in another moment, Clarke might feel jealousy, but all she knows now is an overwhelming need to soothe the woman in front of her.  

“I’m sorry.”  In the pain of the moment, it’s the only thing that Clarke can think of to say.  Anya only shakes her head.  With the drawing of a shaky breath, her shoulders shudder.  

“It has been a long time since I loved them,” she chokes out.  Shakily, she brushes at her eyes.  “It is not — I do not mourn my old mate still,” she explains; she turns her gaze up to Clarke as though pleading with her to understand.  “It is only that I . . . _ai laik Giva._  Do you understand?”  The sensation of Clarke’s heart striking against her ribs feels like a knife blow.  Swallowing hard against the painful lump growing in her throat, she bites back the tears that threaten to rise.  Gently, she reaches out to catch Anya by the cusp of her jaw.

 _“Yu laik Giva,_ but you have no one to give to,” she finishes the Alpha’s thought.  Still looking absolutely lost, Anya nods.  

“Omegas are _Treja,_ and I . . . I have no one to treasure,” is her whisper, broken at the edges with a pain that cracks in her heart.  Clarke feels a sympathetic twinge in her own chest.  It solidifies into a deep ache, one that seems to piece the depths of her bones.  As it settles there, it twists, wending its way around her heart and through her blood and marrow, until every particle of her being is infused with the soft pain of yearning.  When her heart beats next, it sends the feeling rushing through her blood, and the last thin fiber of resistance snaps.  

Her words, when they come, are steady with certainty.  

“You do now.”  There’s a beat after she says it, and then Anya’s eyes dart upwards, her lips parted in shock.  

They have been dancing around this for weeks, but now that they’re experiencing a relative moment of peace, the moment feels right for such revelations.  Between spending her nights wrapped up in Anya’s arms and her days standing tall at her side, Clarke has had the time to think.  She’s considered it from every angle, and in the past few hours alone, it has become abundantly clear to her that this isn’t something that she can think through.  Perhaps to the rest of Skaikru the question of what she’ll do after the fall of the mountain is difficult to decide, but the answer, in her heart, is obvious.  Anya’s steadiness, her attentiveness; her nervous, doting affection and bright spirit, have settled in Clarke’s heart and taken root.  Two weeks, and already she can’t imagine her life any other way.  

Anya’s lips are trembling as her wide eyes dart searchingly between Clarke’s own.

“Klark?”  The whisper, so tentative, is barely audible, but Clarke can hear in it the broken tendrils of cautious hope beginning to take hold.  In answer, she presses closer, seeking with her fingertips the invisible line where another’s bite mark once lay.  She’s seen the faded heartbreak in Anya’s eyes, the uncertainty that she knows stems from their difference in cultures.  She doesn’t know what grounder traditions are like, but on the Ark, it was frowned upon to take a new mate upon the loss of one’s first.  She hopes that, like so many other things, that custom is different here.  

With the lightest touch that she can muster, she brushes first her fingertips across the place where an old mating mark would have been, and then, with care, presses her lips to the hot skin.  

Anya’s gasp catches the autumn air as her knees go weak.  Swaying, she grasps for Clarke’s shoulders for balance.  Clarke gives it readily, allowing her body to bear the weight of her Alpha and feeling her heart blossom with joy.  Closing her eyes, she nuzzles in close, letting her lips rest upon Anya’s wildly fluttering pulse.  Her Alpha’s scent is overwhelming here, strong and all-consuming, and as the last vestiges of hesitance leave her, Clarke permits herself to be overcome by the weight of the scent and heartbeat and the simple, proud happiness of having her senses narrowed to the woman keeping her soul tethered to Earth.  

 _“Ai laik yu Treja,”_ she whispers, and allows the words to dance warmly across soft skin.  She feels the pulse against her stutter, and there’s a beat during which the promise sinks into the space between them.

Then Anya’s arms are around her, tugging her close, her hands fumbling to grasp Clarke anywhere that she can hold.  She is shaking as she moves, struggling to get Clarke as close as she possibly can; with a muffled noise of surprise, Clarke slides off the rock ledge and into waist-deep water where her Alpha pulls at her insistently until they are fully intertwined.  She relaxes there, leaning into the taller body.

Anya is pressing hard kisses to her hair, her forehead, her cheek; any part of the Omega that she can reach.  Her chest rumbles with loud, frantic purrs that shake into Clarke’s body.  She’s whispering something in Trigedasleng that Clarke can’t quite make out, pressing the words reverently into her Omega’s skin with kisses that have Clarke leaning in with a sigh.  Clarke nestles closer and tilts her head up, searching.

 _“Anya,”_ she breathes, once, twice, three times, until at last Anya is torn from her desperate attention and catches the blonde head in her hands.  When their eyes meet, Clarke can see her own reflected back at her, their blue as bright as the spring’s waters.  Anya’s gaze is more solemn and burning than she has ever seen it.  Tears have gathered in her bright eyes.  

 _“Ai laik yu Giva,”_ is all she says, but it’s a whisper so heavy with long-held need that Clarke nearly goes weak.  If her knees are to buckle under the weight of her relief, she knows that Anya’s arms will keep her from slipping beneath the surface of the sparkling water.  Even if she did, she knows that Anya would give the very breath from her lungs.  

These waters are said to be sacred.

Perhaps she doesn’t believe in gods, but the water seems to dance with some power beyond knowing, and as it baptizes the confessions that have fallen from their lips after so long a wait, Clarke decides there is something holy here, either way.  

* * *

It is well past noon when the sounding of a horn announces to the gathering visitors that the last riders from distant clans have arrived.  The Skaikru, minus Clarke and Octavia, are summoned from their tents by guards and led, with a little suspicion, to the gathering place where the leaders of the Coalition are to assemble.  They have chosen a large room in the basement of one of the few stone buildings left standing, one that Abby is fairly certain is a remnant of the Old Earth capitol.  Whatever it once was, it is unrecognizable; the stone walls are draped with banners bearing the symbols of the clans, its center adorned with a long, rough-hewn wooden table.  Over twenty chairs have been drawn up, the Commander’s throne at the place of honor in the very center of them all.  

The room is teeming with grounders, and where Abby’s morning was spent surrounded by Trikru from seemingly all walks of life, these newcomers are of a distinctly different sort.  She counts eleven ambassadors in all, some accompanied by generals or other warriors.  All bear the prominent symbols of leadership, indicated by pauldrons, holstered swords, and war paint in every imaginable design.  

Abby thought the grounders one and the same, all a similar breed of armor-clad barbarian, but this sight is putting her assumptions to the test.  While everyone in the room is unmistakably a warrior, she notices that each bears a sign of belonging to a different clan.  The armor of one ambassador is plated with a shiny metal that Abby is almost certain is pure gold.  Another wears no armor at all, clad instead in brightly colored clothes that almost resemble the Skaikru’s Old Earth style fashion, albeit in better repair.  One ambassador, a stocky woman with a head of wildly curly russet hair, carries a salty, windswept scent; another, one of the two late arrivals, bears intricate scarring across his face, his warpaint white instead of black.  With the influx of strangers, the Trikru are almost comfortingly familiar with their hulking armor and heavy kohl.  

All mill about while they wait, overwhelming the Skaikru in their tattered assemblage to the point that Abby, Kane, and even the reluctant Murphy huddle together in the corner.  Regarding them coldly as usual, Raven situates herself on the opposite side of the room with her chin held obstinately high.  Fortunately, they don’t have to wait for long.  Soon after their arrival, the ambassadors begin to take up places at the long table, cueing the Skaikru to scramble to follow their example.  

The Commander herself arrives last, bringing with her her entourage of Gustus, Octavia, Lincoln, the woman called Indra, Anya, and Clarke.  

When the War Council convenes, Abby is met with the sight of her daughter so transformed that she is almost unrecognizable.  She’s hardly seen Clarke since her removal from Camp Jaha; apart from their brief breakfast, she has barely laid eyes on her.  They have yet to speak since Clarke’s illness; in the days that have followed, Abby has kept her distance, simultaneously reluctant to cause further distress and desperate to interact.  She has wanted to speak to Clarke, to find out if she is okay, to apologize, but Lexa and Anya’s hawklike eyes have kept her at a respectful distance.

Abby doesn’t know what dramatic change has taken place in the few days since her daughter lay burning with fever in her bunk at Camp Jaha, but it is significant enough to stun her into stillness.  

Clarke is dressed from head to foot in grounder clothes.  The most stunning garment is a coat, long enough to reach to her mid-thigh; it is of the same brilliant blue of her eyes, tailored from leather, with metal studs glinting along the cuffs.  Her hair has been done up in tiny little braids, half of it pulled back away from her face, and there is ash beneath her eyes.  She smells of fire and soot and war and Omega and of the Alpha at her side.

It’s a relief for Abby to know that her worries about Clarke’s wellbeing can be laid to rest; her daughter looks healthier than she ever has in her life.  Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright.  Nevertheless, Abby feels an ache in her chest at the sight.  As much as she is beginning to see what this new life is bringing Clarke, she cannot quash the painful recognition that her daughter is slipping away.  In the flickering torchlight cast on the stone walls, standing tall at the general’s side, Clarke looks more like a grounder than she has ever looked like Skaikru.  

What shakes Abby the most, though, is the way the two of them look together.  

She was only able to visit Clarke once after she was imprisoned on the Ark, and it was brief, a two-minute visitation allowed because Clarke was ill.  It was four months in, and faced already by signs of oxygen deprivation among her other patients, Abby pretended not to notice them in her own daughter.  She hadn’t wanted this when she turned Jake in; hadn’t wanted any of it.  Never had she thought that Clarke would put herself in such a dangerous position for her father.  

Abby remembers that visit like it was yesterday; Clarke, thin and wan and flat-eyed, her limbs a little shaky from the lack of oxygen.  Prisoners on the Ark weren’t well provided for; law-abiding citizens had to be prioritized, and so Clarke was skinny, a little fumbling and shaky on her feet, too malnourished to sustain a heat even without her suppressants.  Abby remembers the twinge in her heart when she saw her pup sick and grieving, so near the eve of the adulthood that would mean her death.

She remembers watching the drop ship burn bright into the atmosphere, unsure of whether she’d ever see her daughter again.  She remembers watching Clarke’s screen on the Ark go dark.  She remembers wondering if she brought about her own daughter’s death; knowing that if she hadn’t risked it, Clarke would be dead anyway.  In just a couple of weeks, this Trikru warrior has given Clarke everything that Abby has never been able to give.  

Abby sent her daughter to Earth in the hopes that she might live — not just survive a guaranteed death sentence, but live a fulfilling life.  As much as it pains her that the price is losing her daughter to another culture, she can no longer deny that her wish has been granted.

Anya has given Clarke strength.  She has given her nourishment, safety, a purpose.  She has given her sunlight and stories of a new culture and the chance to build a new and beautiful life for herself.  Abby wants to hate her, but she can’t.  She wants to feel the burn of fury in her heart, but Anya looks at Clarke with nothing but love in her eyes.  

She knew the instant she saw them together that the two of them felt something for each other.  Abby isn’t blind.  She sees the way that Clarke leans into the grounder Alpha, how Anya stands taller with the knowledge that Clarke is at her side.  As they entered the room, Anya guided her with a hand on her back.  Now she stands close, protective, watchful, with something soft in her strong-boned features that looks unmistakably like adoration.  Abby sees the looks they give one another, the subtle glances, tonight more than ever before, it seems.  She knows that Clarke has found her mate.  

She also knows that she couldn’t have hoped for a better mate for her daughter.  Abby doesn’t like Anya, hates what the grounder’s people have been doing to the children of the Ark, but she has seen Anya’s loyalty again and again.  She has seen how the Alpha’s eyes go starry when they fall on Clarke, and knows, with a deep and desperate ache in her heart, that they’re the same stars that were in her own eyes whenever she looked at Jake.  

More than that, Abby can sense the truth that leaves her worried and on edge, the underlying scent of which Clarke herself has yet to take notice.  She doesn’t know how it’s possible, not when the children have only been on the ground for a little over a month.  They’ve been stressed and underfed since they were imprisoned, which for Clarke was nearly a year.  It seems impossible that conditions have improved fast enough for their bodies to compensate, but Clarke, Abby supposes, has been under the care of someone who has not only kept her safe and well-fed, but whose Alpha presence has slowly been calling to her.  

Whatever the case, the signs are unmistakeable: Clarke is going into heat.  

Abby is a doctor; she has spent over twenty years on the Ark tending to Omegas.  She knows the first signs of heat, has caught it in the ones back on the Ark who managed to evade the suppressants and given them the medicine before it’s too late.  She knows why the blush in Clarke’s cheeks has deepened, why she presses instinctively closer to her Alpha.  She knows that the threat of impending war is likely the only thing keeping it from coming on in full force.  

It only makes Abby more aware of the fact that she’s going to lose her daughter to these people.  As soon as Clarke’s heat hits, she’s going to want to be with her Alpha — her Trikru Alpha who will likely spirit her away to some Trikru village where she’ll lead a Trikru life.  Clarke will live in one of these wood-and-stone grounder cottages surrounded by forests and rivers and mountains; she’ll bear pups for her grounder mate — likely many, if the numbers in this village are anything to go by.  She’ll live a life among the trees, without Ark technology; she’ll learn the language of these people even more than she already has and raise her children to speak it, too.  She’ll probably be a healer.  She’ll learn the grounder ways of medicine and battle and leadership and live the rest of her life in service of this complex and powerful Coalition led by a girl who can’t be more than two years older than Clarke herself.  

Commander Lexa, Abby has come to realize, is more than meets the eye.  

It hardly seems possible than a woman of scarcely twenty years can lead the last surviving members of the human race.  When they first encountered each other back at Camp Jaha, Abby thought her a child; a bloodthirsty young girl who had earned her ornate throne through some unknown means in order to command the armies of the earth.  She was prepared to face a stubborn and reckless child, to barter and play ludicrous games in order to make her see reason.

Instead, what Abby has found in Tondisi is that everything she thought of Lexa could not be further from the truth.

The Commander leads with strength and wisdom, and a solemn, steady logic that defies her age.  Her subjects revere her; that much is evident after just one day in the villagers’ midst.  They bow as she walks past, greet her joyfully when she enters a room.  The young Commander has a regal air about her, a stance that suggests stability and balance.  

Abby watches her take her place at the high table and remembers her conversation with Nyko, a Trikru healer she and Marcus spent the morning with preparing bandages.  He told them the story of the young Heda, taken from her family as all other nightblood children are at the age of three.  He told them how she trained harder and with more determination than any other nightblood; how when the previous Commander died nine years later she stepped into the arena with her head held high.  How she won the Conclave and was chosen by the Spirit of the Commander.  How the twelve-year-old girl took upon her shoulders with grace and dignity the weight of the last vestiges of humanity; how she brought together the warring clans into one Coalition and earned her title of The Uniter.  How the Spirit of the Commander burns brighter in her than in any Heda that ever came before. 

Abby doesn’t know how she feels about reincarnation.  It seems preposterous, given all the Old Earth science she’s spent her life learning and relying upon to save lives that, once gone, don’t seem to make a reappearance.  

And yet Old Earth science is what brought about the end of the world.  These peoples’ ways seem to do nothing but create new ones.  

It seems that there is much left for the Skaikru to learn.  

Abby is willing.  She has made choices in fighting for their survival that ultimately led to destruction, but she is not so stubborn that she cannot put aside her pride and vanity.  There was a time that she thought she knew best for her daughter.  If it didn’t end when her choices landed her child in prison, it ended the day that Anya forced her to stand aside and gave Clarke the life that she could not.  

It will be slow and painful, but Abby will humble herself before these people whose ranks her daughter has joined.  

The grounders are more than they seemed to be when the children were waging war against them; Abby knows this now.  The Hundred were met with warriors, but the clans’ ranks hold others too.  They have healers and ambassadors and teachers and families and children.  They have history, and culture, and values.  The Skaikru might not share those values for now, but Abby is willing to learn where they come from.  

“Let the War Council assemble.”  Lexa’s voice is high and clear, and resonates through the large room without effort.  It brings Abby out of her reflection and back to where the gathered Coalition stands at attention.  “Welcome, ambassadors; I am pleased to see you have journeyed well.”  All around the long table, the eleven ambassadors are nodding in acknowledgement; one or two offer small smiles.  

“For our Skaikru visitors, allow me to introduce the ambassadors of the other eleven clans,” Lexa continues with a nod toward Abby and Marcus.  “We welcome Darius kom Sangedakru.”  A tall, muscular man dressed in heavy robes nods.  “Gillian kom Louwoda Kliron Kru.”  A woman with bright red hair smiles in greeting.  “Roan kom Azgeda.”  The man with patterned scars etched into his skin remains stony-faced.  “Luna kom Floukru.”  The woman with curly hair smelling of salty air inclines her head, and her eyes travel appraisingly over the Skaikru.  It might be Abby’s imagination, but she thinks Luna’s gaze might linger on Raven a little longer than the rest.  

One by one, the remaining ambassadors are introduced, as are the generals at Lexa’s side.  Then the War Council begins, and Abby struggles to absorb the proceedings as the politics of the grounder tribes outweigh anything she ever thought possible.  

* * *

It has been six hours.  Six hours of planning, of arguing and brainstorming and strategizing and of disagreements that start off as subtle but by hour four have evolved into two near-knife fights and a shouting match.  Clarke has found that contrary to the Ark’s expectations of Omega capabilities, the fancy political footwork is easy for her to track.  The Skaikru visitors are growing visibly exhausted, but Clarke finds herself possessed of the same focused energy that is currently consuming Lexa.  By this point, they are missing some members, a few of their number having been ordered to the outdoors by Heda when their aggravation grew too strong.  Those remaining around the table have taken on a frenetic, intense focus accumulated through hours of single-minded strategizing.  

They’ve gathered close at this point, all of them hunched around a three-dimensional battle plan mapping Mount Weather’s surrounding area constructed from odds and ends around the room.   

“I will not ask again.”  Mira, the ambassador of the Boudalankru, has, like all of them, been growing steadily tenser the longer the Council lasts.  “If the Maunon can eavesdrop on your talk-boxes, will they not know when it is safe for us to proceed into the area where the acid fog is unleashed?  I will walk into battle on Heda’s command, but not if we are to be annihilated.”  

“They will know.”  Octavia has stripped herself of her cloak and leans with leather-plated gloves on the edge of the oak table.  While many of the others by this point have begun to tire, Octavia seems to have grown energized by all the talk of war and strategy.  Her eyes are glinting with sharp anticipation, and her breath comes quickly as she studies the makeshift map intently.  Clarke has never seen her so in her element.  “But at that point, it will no longer matter.  We will already be inside of their radar, and by the time we reach the door, Raven and Wick will have disabled the dam.  By the time they’re able to assemble themselves to react, we’ll already be inside.”  Her words are interspersed with Trigedasleng; the Council is being conducted in English for the benefit of the Skaikru, and everyone has so far complied, but Clarke has noticed the extra attention they grant the young Alpha who has chosen to speak their language.  That, if anything, has earned the Skaikru a measure of respect.

“Besides,” Clarke adds, addressing the table at large, “the door is on the ninth level.  Once Raven and Wick reverse the air filters, the Maunon will be confined to the fifth.  We won’t be in any immediate danger until we reach them there.  With half of us going in from the door and the rest from below in the Reaper tunnels, we’ll hit them from both sides.”  

“And yet our victory depends on us being able to navigate the inside of this godforsaken place,” interjects Darius with a hiss.  A low mutter announces the other ambassadors’ agreement.  

It is an issue, one that Clarke has been grappling with ever since they reached the infiltration stage of their battle plan.  The grounders, she understands, are concerned about navigation.  As Anya explained to her when the issue first arose, the clans are accustomed to finding their way by natural signs.  There will be none inside the mountain.  For all the grounders’ prowess in battle, they depend upon their knowledge of the outside world for much of their strategy.  None of them have ever experienced an environment like Mount Weather.  Having grown up in a similar bunker, it’s a barrier that Clarke didn’t foresee.  

Lexa, it seems, has considered how to address it.

“That is why we have only two battalion entry points rather than sending a third in through the air shafts like Luna suggested,” the Commander answers stolidly, sending the Floukru leader a deferential nod.  Luna returns it with poise.  “Klark knows the layout of the mountain, and Onya has already been inside.  Between them, they will be our warriors’ guides.”  It’s a reasonable solution, one that the ambassadors seem to accept.  Nevertheless, Clarke is uneasy.  

A glance to her right shows her that Anya’s stoic expression has remained unchanged.  Nevertheless, as suddenly attuned as she is to her Alpha’s scent, Clarke can sense her anxiety at the prospect of reentering the mountain.  The thought makes her chest swell with harsh protectiveness.  She doesn’t know what it is, but in the past day or so, Clarke’s instinctive need to defend Anya has watched up a hundred and fifty percent.  The prospect of Anya getting hurt makes her blood boil.  Clarke thinks of her gentle, loving Alpha being tortured by the Maunon, of them tying her up by her ankles and draining her body of blood; she remembers her sweet intended mate locked starving and cold and empty of hope in a tiny cage, and she wants to tear the Maunon limb from limb.  

After all, she figures, she’s an Omega; perhaps the Alpha drive is to protect their mates, but it goes both ways.  Clarke doesn’t know whose side she’s fighting for anymore, but she knows that she will protect Anya with her life.

“What if we are to become separated?  What then?”  Gillian kom Louwoda Kliron Kru calls out from the end of the table.  She and Luna have remained the calmest out of the ambassadors, never raising their voices once even as tensions have risen.  

“Yes, or what if one of them is to fall in battle?” the Podakru delegate adds.  “How will we find our way?”  A few other voices rise in agreement, questions flooding in from all sides.  Bowing her head, the Commander holds up her hand for silence.  The effect is immediate, and once it has fallen, Lexa turns her gaze expectantly to Clarke.

“Well, Klark?”  The weight of her eyes is heavy, curious.  “What do you propose?”  

“Could you write down directions?” Kane, in the corner, pipes up hopefully.  Not removing her stare from Clarke’s, Lexa shakes her head.

“Our language has no written form,” she informs him.  “Clarke?  Can you think of any way to show us?” 

“Yes, can you lead us into battle, _skai goufa?”_ Mira asks peevishly.

“No,” Clarke admits.  Then her eyes sparkle.  “But I can draw you a map.”  

It takes about twenty minutes for her to sketch the interior of Mount Weather.  The original drawing she made inside the mountain is long gone, lost in the escape and subsequent trek through the forest.  Lexa calls for paper and charcoals, which Clarke quickly puts to good use.  She can sense Anya’s fascination as she works, the Alpha’s interest flickering while she watches her draw.  She remembers their conversation from the river a number of days ago; that they are both artists.  The aftermath of this war is hardly Clarke’s focus tonight, but she can’t help a spark of curiosity from flaring up at the thought of Anya showing her the things she has carved.  

Once the map is done, Clarke hands it over to Lexa, letting first the Commander and then the ambassadors examine it and ask the new questions that arise upon seeing the layout of the mountain.  

“I’m telling you, we can’t break through any other way.  If what Bellamy says is true, those doors are the only way we’re going to get a whole army into that mountain,” Raven insists in response to Trishanakru’s doubts about the safety of the plan.  To Clarke’s great surprise, she’s one of the few who has remained fully dedicated to the task.  While Kane and Abby have taken up residence in chairs in the corners of the room, barely awake, Raven appears to be in her element.  She started the assembly hovering nervously on the fringes of the room, but has slowly crept in closer over the course of six hours until before Clarke knows it she’s as invested and argumentative as the rest of them.  Her hair is is coming loose, her eyes alight with a fervor Clarke has only ever seen when she’s come up with a new machine to save the day.  

“But if we send in a battalion through the Reaper tunnels first — ” Octavia begins.

“That’ll only distract them a little,” Clarke cuts across Octavia.  “And only for a minute, at that.  They’ve got an entire army in there, and from what Bellamy said, it sounds like everyone will be concentrated on Level Five because of the radiation breach.”  

“They’re not the only ones with an army,” Roan growls, popping his knuckles threateningly.  Though not particularly disagreeable, as Clarke initially expected, he has been rather brusque and harsh for the majority of the meeting.  Clarke sends the Azgedan Alpha a glare.  

“Maybe not, but there’s a hundred feet of concrete between our army and theirs,” she counters irritably.  “If you’d only listen to — ”

“He’s right.”  To Clarke’s surprise, it’s Raven who interrupts her this time.  A glance at her fellow Omega and she sees that Raven is staring at the makeshift map with an odd gleam in her eyes.  “He’s _right,_ Clarke; you _do_ have an army in there — an army that can travel to every level without getting burned.”  The confusion over Raven’s pronouncement mingles with Clarke’s shock that Raven has said her name.  Since Finn’s death, she has pretended as though Clarke doesn’t exist, even going so far as to stare straight through her whenever she speaks and look around for someone else talking.  Clarke feels a burst of joy; she and Raven are strategizing together like they used to before Finn tore them apart.  

Lexa isn’t as wrapped up in such emotional politics.

“Explain,” she orders curtly, though her expression shows the slightest sign of intrigue.  A steadying inhale, and Raven complies.

“You _have_ an army in the mountain, Commander,” she reiterates.  Emphatically, she brings her finger to rest on the point that designates the harvest chamber.  “You have hundreds of warriors in that mountain ready to fight.  All we have to do is unlock the door.”  

Silence falls, in which all of the eyes in the room are on Raven.  Clarke watches, noting the expressions of surprise and intrigue that line the faces of the ambassadors.  Clearly, none of them have been expecting this brusque, grouchy Skaikru Omega to deliver them a plan that might actually grant them a chance.  At the realization, Clarke almost flinches, until she registers the fact that in the ambassadors’ looks of curiosity, not one of them looks affronted or dismissive.  Among the Skaikru, the response of higher officials to an Omega’s proposal would certainly be riddled with doubt and disregard.  Instead, all of these ambassadors — none of them Omegas, by Clarke’s nose — wear an expression of pleasant surprise.  All of them are gazing at Raven with deference, Luna most of all.  

Huh.

“What do you say, Onya?”  Lexa directs her question at her general.  “Will it work?”  

At Clarke’s side, Anya is still, contemplative.  Her brow is furrowed as she stares intently at the map.  Clarke can hear her thoughts racing, sense the spike in her scent that means she’s remembering her days of imprisonment.  More than anything, Clarke knows, Anya’s heart aches for those still trapped inside the mountain’s depths.  It was that, after all, that led them to an alliance in the first place.

After a moment, Anya raises her head.

“It could work, Heda,” she confirms.  A murmur arises among the delegates; after six hours of toiling with much frustration and little progress, a note of excitement has entered their voices.  Even Indra looks more eager to engage.  

“In that case, we will need another team,” Lexa declares, and her words carry new vigor.  Around the table, the energy has shifted.  The ambassadors are more attentive, leaning in, ready to contribute and plan.  “A group will be required to take care of those who have been held prisoner by the Maunon once they have fought their way out.  Anya, Klark — you were imprisoned yourselves; what can you tell me about their condition?  What will they need?”

“Food,” Clarke says instantly.  “And water.  They’ll be weak from blood loss, so they’ll need energy immediately.”  The ambassadors are listening intently now, taking in every word.  The uptick in energy has roused even Murphy who, though he remains wary, is now awake and alert in the corner.  

“They will be cold,” Anya adds quickly.  “We were all kept nearly naked, and the room of cages had no heat.”  The words are terse, and catching the tight surge of anxiety in her voice, Clarke shifts closer instinctively.  

“Pack coats,” Lexa orders.  “As many spares as you can collect from the villagers, and blankets heated beside the fire.  Send Betas to warm them and prepare food and medicine while we storm the mountain.”  There is a flurry of activity, and several attendants depart, presumably to convey the message.  With that, the ambassadors move in, and Clarke is caught up in the wave of rapid-fire negotiations as everyone crowds around the table and the battle planning begins.

* * *

“You look tired, _strik skaifaya.”_  The concerned murmur is pressed into Clarke’s hair along with soft lips.  A hand rubs soothingly up her back, pausing momentarily to cradle the nape of her neck in a gesture that feels gently possessive.  Instinctively, Clarke wiggles closer, tightening her fingers in the back of Anya’s jacket as she moves.  The fragrance of leather mingles with Anya’s scent in her nose, heady and comforting.

“I am, a little,” she admits once she’s settled.

A little over an hour later, and the war negotiations have been brought to a close.  The War Council by this point has broken off into smaller groups, most retreating outside for a last glimpse of sunlight before dark.  With Raven’s revelation about the grounders trapped inside the mountain, the final piece seems to have fallen into place for Lexa and her armies.  The plan, as it stands, is simple: Raven and Wick will disable the dam and reverse the turbines, which will cut the power to the main door and trap the Mountain Men on Level Five.  Half of Lexa’s army will be waiting to storm the mountain; the rest will enter from below, where Bellamy, after releasing the captured grounders from their cages, will let them in through the tunnel doors.  All together, the three armies will storm Level Five from all sides, punish the leaders for their crimes, and the Skaikru will offer to donate bone marrow to the civilians of the mountain.  

It’s not foolproof, but it feels about as close as they can get.  

They leave at dawn.

The creature above her hums thoughtfully, tightening her hold.

“A hot meal ought to help,” she comments.  Nestled so close, her voice gets caught in the curtain of Clarke’s hair.  “We are certain to eat after Heda converses with the generals and the scouts.  Would you like a snack to hold you over until then?”  Effectively buried in Anya’s chest, Clarke shakes her head.  

“No, thank you,” she denies.  “I’m just tired.  It’s odd, though; we didn’t do much besides strategize all evening.  I feel like I shouldn’t be this worn out.”  Ever since the waning of the Omega fever, something in Clarke’s body has felt distinctly different.  Her tiredness feels like a heavier sort of exhaustion than before, yet simultaneously feels as though it could be lifted by the scratching of an as-yet unidentified itch.  Above her, Anya hums again.  

“Perhaps not, but then again, you have had long days ever since you found yourself among us,” she reasons.  “It is not unreasonable that you are feeling the effects.”  Clarke shifts a little in her embrace.  As tired as she is, something about being held by her Alpha leeches the weariness from her bones.  As offbeat as her body feels, the confusion of it is lessened by Anya’s touch.  

“Probably,” she grants contemplatively.  “Only I feel . . . I don’t know; _off._  I’m hot all the time, and _hungry,_ but at the same time I think if I eat I might throw up.  Maybe I’m getting sick again.”  Something is certainly afoot.  The sheer, utter relief of having gotten their feelings out into the open combined with a steadily growing level of heat in her belly leaves her with few ways of distracting herself.  Apart from the all-consuming elation brought by their midday confessions — the joy of which she can only assume is normal — something in Clarke’s body feels unusually heightened.  Her fierce, growing attraction towards Anya, while wildly potent, is nowhere near enough to serve as an explanation for what is currently taking place.   

Since the outset of the War Council, Clarke has become hyper-aware of Anya’s scent; it’s an issue that has been growing steadily for days, but in the past hour alone her newfound sensitivity has grown almost unbearable.  It’s not just Anya, either; her nose is oddly sensitive in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar.  Every scent, every ounce of body heat, has Clarke’s bones set on edge.  She hasn’t even mentioned the persistent, almost embarrassing level of arousal.  Anya, to make matters more distracting, has scarcely let Clarke leaving her sight — or her touch — since their shared moment in the pools this afternoon.  It doesn’t help that her mother is watching her every move with a look in her eye that’s far too knowing for Clarke’s liking.  

At that detail, Anya stiffens.  Clarke can’t help grumbling a little as she pulls back, but soon settles as Anya noses into her hair.  She lets out a tiny sigh.  It’s almost enough to distract her when Anya’s hand drops from her back to her wrist, pressing her thumb against the hot skin.  The sensation of long fingers circling her wrist causes a shiver to ripple down Clarke’s spine.

Well, that’s new.  

“Your heartbeat is faster than usual,” Anya remarks casually, dropping her wrist and returning her hand to Clarke’s back.  Clarke feels a sting of disappointment at the loss of the gentle grip, and files away that information for later.  When Anya’s comment registers, however, a spike of worry distracts her from the inappropriate spiral of thought.  Pulling back, she tilts her head to look Anya in the eyes.

“What does that mean?” she frets, searching honey eyes for recourse.  Hazy memories flash through her mind of fever chills and nausea, the tiny bunk room in the Ark swimming in her vision.  Somehow, though, Anya doesn’t look the slightest bit concerned; in fact, if Clarke didn’t know any better, she would say that she almost looks hopeful.

“Nothing terrible,” Anya assures her, pulling her back in close.  “Your scent has changed as well.  If I may just . . . ” she trails off, gently brushing back Clarke’s hair to nuzzle her scent gland.  Clarke shivers; then, a moment later, when Anya presses an open-mouthed kiss to the spot and allows her teeth to graze the skin, she lets out an embarrassing little mewl.  

The sound affects Anya so powerfully that it takes Clarke by surprise.  Instantly, the Alpha’s embrace is tightening, one arm snaking around her back while her other hand slips beneath the open jacket to press over Clarke’s heart.  With a low growl, she gives a gentle tug, and Clarke is forced to brace herself on the Alpha’s shoulders as Anya pulls her between her hips.  

Then Anya’s lips close around her pulse point, and Clarke melts against her chest with a gasp.  

“I thought so,” Anya murmurs against her neck, a touch of triumph in her voice.  She pulls back enough to nudge her nose against Clarke’s with a small smile.  “You are going into heat.”  

Her body still wracked with shivers from the unexpected jolt of pleasure, it takes Clarke a moment to register what she’s saying.  Her mind is hazy with the sensation of Anya’s lips on her, the gentle sting of her teeth, so close to marking her, _claiming_ her.  

Then the reality of Anya’s words breaks through the daze, and she blinks in shock.  

“I’m — but how?” is all she can manage to stammer out, pulling back to stare wide-eyed at her intended mate.  “I was so sick two days ago; how have I possibly gotten strong enough — we have a war to fight tomorrow, when will it — ” 

“You are not there quite yet, I do not think,” Anya assures her.  There is a new brightness in her features that Clarke can only attribute to joy.  “Within a week, perhaps.  Safety and nourishment have given you strength, _strikon,”_ she explains when Clarke’s look of stunned confusion doesn’t abate.  “After so long, it is not surprising that it has come on fast once you became strong enough to sustain it.”  She is careful to keep her words neutral, but Clarke is not startled enough that she can’t read between the lines.  There is hidden but unmistakeable pride in Anya’s eyes, along with a certain measure of what looks like relief, and she knows that this is all attributable to her Alpha.  

It is because of Anya that Clarke’s body, so long neglected, has grown strong enough to gift her the full experience of being an Omega.  It is Anya who has cared for her, fed her, insisted upon including her in a world where she is treated with kindness and respect.  It is Anya who awoke the Omega within her, and who then gave her shelter and companionship when the Skaikru’s neglect made her ill.  

Abruptly, the recognition hits her of exactly what that means.  Her heat will not hit until after they’ve defeated the mountain, but when it does, it will mean the beginning of everything new.  She has admitted aloud to Anya — though not in so many words — that she wants to be hers.  They have not yet discussed it, have not ventured further than to admit their growing mutual attraction, but Clarke thinks there’s a fair chance that however this battle with the mountain goes, she might very well end up in Anya’s home at its conclusion.  Certainly, she has no desire to return to Camp Jaha, and with their confessions hovering over them, she can’t quite imagine any other outcome.  

It’s the first cause of joy she has known in years.  

Clarke may be tough, may be a leader, but this Omega part of her is a side of her that has been buried, kept from her; long denied her.  She wants to feel it at its fullest.  She wants to continue to lead and heal and fight, but almost more than that, she wants to _belong._  She wants to give herself to an Alpha who is worthy of her, who is strong and powerful and kind.  She wants to love and serve and protect, to care for; to let her body dictate her actions and do what it is meant for.  She wants to give herself up to her heat, to bear pups for this fierce, gentle, wonderful Alpha.  She wants to be everything that Anya has ever wanted and more.  A part of her thrills to the thought of it; of this powerful Alpha taking her offered submission and giving her strength and affection in return.  

She feels Anya’s need deeply, senses the warrior’s terrible, aching loneliness, her longing for a mate to protect and provide for and to cherish.  She wants to give her that.  She wants to care for the Alpha in all of the ways she knows how and still others that she has yet to learn.  She wants to feed her from her own hand when her warrior returns home, to tend to her lovingly, braid her hair and touch her face with ash before battle; to provide warmth and comfort during the night.  She wants to give her pups to love and teach and train.  She wants to ease the pain that loneliness has brought and show Anya that she is needed; wanted.  

Three months ago, a home on Earth was Clarke’s far-off dream for a distant generation of humanity.  To have it within her reach, she thinks, will forever feel like a fevered and beautiful dream.  

“I do not think you know, Klark, how special this is.”  With their noses still touching, Anya’s whisper comes against her lips.  It takes everything Clarke has not to lean in and let them touch.   She allows her eyes to fall closed.  Anya’s hold is strong; her grip has turned possessive while retaining its gentleness.  Both her hands have slipped beneath the open jacket to cradle the bow of Clarke’s ribs, more padded than they were even a few days ago.  “A heat is a gift, something that brings joy.  I am glad that you will have the privilege of knowing it.”  Eyes closed, Clarke hums.  Even in her relief and eagerness, the room is spinning.

“It’s a little overwhelming,” she admits as she allows her Alpha to press their foreheads together.  Anya’s grasp slides down to her hips, where Clarke knows the little weight she has gained has begun to settle and show.  “I mean, you know I’ve never had one before, and my body — I don’t know what’s happening.”  It’s not a lie, but it’s only part of the issue to which she is referring; what she is leaving unsaid is how all of her current instincts are screaming at her to tear off Anya’s clothes and _kneel._  Propriety dictates that she doesn’t, but _oh,_ how Clarke craves it.  

Perhaps it’s best not to mention that part right now.  

“You will be hungry,” Anya affirms.  The tips of her fingers just dip below the waist of Clarke’s pants to brush along sensitive skin.  “You may grow irritable, especially with those who are not potential mates for you; family, mated friends.  You will feel feverish when you do not sleep enough, and you will crave physical contact.  Small touches at first, and then . . . more.”  Clarke shudders a little with anticipation at the thought of what exactly _more_ might entail.

 _“Onya!  Kom au.  Heda laik spekt.”_  Recognizing Indra’s summons, Anya steps back with one last gentle nuzzle.  Blinking a little in the brightness of the oil lamps with newly opened eyes, Clarke casts a glance toward the other grounder general who stands expectantly in the arched doorway leading to the village square outdoors.  

“Why is Heda waiting for you?” she questions.  She doesn’t miss the flash of pride that crosses Anya’s expression at the realization that she has understood the Trigedasleng.  

“Heda wishes to converse briefly with the generals and the scouts,” Anya replies, extricating herself from the Omega with some difficulty.   “Go with Okteivia; I believe Indra has asked her to help you prepare for the celebration.  I will meet you there, _sha?”_  No longer in direct physical contact with her, Anya has settled somewhat, but there’s still a spark in her eyes that’s not unlike excitement.  The active display of emotion is so rare that Clarke is held spellbound.  

“Celebration?” she parrots.  Inwardly, she feels a flash of embarrassment at her lack of eloquence. 

 _“Sha.”_  Anya, if anything, looks only amused.  “It is Trikru tradition, a celebration made to honor our warriors and send them into battle with high spirits.  Tomorrow we go to war.  Tonight, we celebrate.”  At the sight of the bewilderment on Clarke’s face, she actually smiles.  “Go with Okteivia,” she urges again, and gives Clarke the gentlest prod in the direction of the tents.  “I will see you at dinner.”  

* * *

As Clarke follows Octavia out of the crowd of delegates in the direction of the tents, Anya approaches Lexa to find the young Heda watching her intended mate with solemn eyes.  When she clears her throat quietly to announce her presence, Lexa turns to her with a calculating expression that can almost be called a smile.

“General,” she greets.

“Heda.”  Though she knows, logically, that such a reaction is foolish, Anya can’t stop a flare of possessiveness from rising at the sight of Lexa’s eyes on her intended mate.  Even with the knowledge that her friend holds no interest in the Omega, Clarke’s impending heat has caused a sudden surge of protective jealousy.  

Lexa’s indulgent smile tells her that any attempts she might make at subtlety are in vain.  

“She is nearly in heat,” is her light comment, and Anya feels her lips raising to reflexively bare her teeth.  “You have been good to her.”  

At that, Anya deflates, a mild sense of shame sweeping over her.  Of course there is no need to defend herself with Lexa.  

“I am only glad that she is healthy,” she remarks easily.  “She deserves it, after all.”  She steps up to join Lexa where she stands, hands clasped behind her back, observing the movement in the square.  Lexa nods solemnly.

“If these Skaikru Omegas can truly recover with such little effort, it will be well worth it,” she muses.  “Their happiness is easy to achieve, and so we must strive for it.”  She offers Anya a side-eyed glance.  “I have spoken to Luna.  She is willing to take in any Skaikru Omegas and Betas who wish to defect.  We are equipped to provide for them,” she continues as Anya’s eyes remain locked on Clarke.  “The Skaikru, even those who are well-meaning, have little idea how to care for an Omega.  We will take in those who defect, get them safe and teach them how to keep themselves healthy and strong.  If any choose to remain with the Skaikru, we will teach their healers what they need, and their Alphas will abide by our laws.”  

“There are fifty-eight others,” Anya says softly.  “I would be surprised if a single one of them remains among the Skaikru if given the chance to leave.  Right now, none of them have heats.  All they need is food and comfort, and they will have them soon enough.  They deserve that.”  The image flashes into her mind of Clarke two weeks ago, underfed and underslept and overwhelmed.  Now, after so little time, the change is almost shocking.

There is a new light in the Omega’s eyes.  The dark circles are fading from beneath them, and her once-hollow cheeks are flushed with health.  Already, her body has begun to fill out, her ribs less visible, her natural curves more pronounced.  It is a change Anya hardly expected to see so soon.  The sight causes pride to flare up in her chest; it is due to _her_ that Clarke is so well.  It is enough to allow her to hope.

What Clarke offered her earlier in the day feels too good to be true.  After so many years of loneliness, of believing that she was fated to spend the rest of her life alone, the prospect of a new mate is almost too wonderful for Anya to bear.  Even though Clarke has explicitly stated her interest, the thought remains overwhelming.  It has been less than a month, and yet Anya doesn’t know what she would do if this precious, precious gift were to be stolen from her again.

She wants Clarke so badly.  She wants to protect her and provide for her, and to be loved and defended in return; she wants her as her partner and lover and someone to share her life with.  She wants to build a family, to see the Omega’s belly swollen with pups that they will both love and teach and nurture.  She dreams of pulling Clarke close, of pressing her beautiful Omega’s body into warm furs and hearing her cry sweetly out in pleasure.  Most of all, she wants someone to cherish.

Lexa, too, is watching Clarke from a distance.

“She will bear you strong pups,” she muses.  Anya can’t help the jolt that runs through her at that.  “You yearn for a family, don’t you, _Fos?_  For a mate?”  

 _“So badly.”_  The whisper escapes Anya in a tight breath of air.  She raises her eyes to Lexa’s and can feel that they are pleading.  “For so long, Lexa.  Ever since — ” she fumbles and falls quiet, fiddling with her hands for a moment as she shifts her gaze down to the ground.  “I have always wanted . . . but then it was stolen from me, and I — I . . .” she trails off, the pure ache within her throat rendering her incapable of forcing the rest of the words out.  “I want someone to be soft for,” she finishes in a choked voice.  

The grip of cool fingers beneath her chin prompts her to raise her head, and she does so to find Lexa’s brilliant green eyes boring into her own.

“You are the strongest Alpha our people have known other than me.”  Lexa’s words are tough but warm, radiating a kind of pride that has Anya leaning into the steady grip of her palm.  “You are powerful, resilient, and a capable leader.  You are my _best_ warrior.  And you are beautiful, and kind.”  Her voice has lowered to a murmur, her lips inches from Anya’s face.  “I myself have known pleasure at your hands and know that you are a giving and attentive lover, but more than that, you are loyal and strong and _good,_ Anya,” she says fiercely, and her voice is low and intimate with her words.  “Any Omega would be honored to be your mate.”  

“I did not know that I could love again.”  Anya’s words are low, and they escape her lips without her permission.  Something close to panic rises in her chest, but her mouth continues to form the words, almost desperately.  “I did not think I ever could, but I — what I feel for her, it is beyond anything I — ” she breaks herself off there, beyond words.

Lexa is watching her with something behind her eyes that looks like the grey of the morning that Anya met her, seven years old with her limbs too long and a sword in her hand.

“You have freedom that I did not,” she says at last after long contemplation.  “Love, for a Commander, is weakness, but for you, Anya . . . don’t let this gift pass you by.  A mate to warm your bed and heart will do you more good than you know.”  

“Klark is not my mate,” Anya protests half-heartedly.  

“But she will be.”  Lexa’s certainty brokers no argument.  “And when the mountain has fallen, you can give her the life she ought to have.  For now, though,” she adds, a twinkle of mischief in her eye, “I suggest finding Lincoln and telling him to go along with his mate.  God only knows what sort of trouble she and Klark might get into — they are teenage criminals, after all.”  

* * *

After Anya departs with a gentle smile in her direction, Clarke’s attention is immediately redirected when Octavia comes barreling in.

“Wine and a snack!” the Alpha declares, seizing her friend’s arm and steering her toward the place where the warriors’ tents are erected.  “I’m under orders to feed and dress you so you’re free to dance the night away.  Lincoln told me all about pre-battle parties to distract me when that Sangedakru _seken_ tripped over his own feet this morning and knocked me in the head with his knife handle.  It’s all black and blue now, see?”  Inclining her head, the young warrior displays an impressive bruise blooming along her jawline. “Anyway, you have a _lot_ to learn.  From what Lincoln says, these celebrations can get a little intense.”  

Passing by a tent where a group of raucous young warriors can be found dipping the ends of their braids in what looks like bright yellow paint, that particular warning gives Clarke pause.  

“What do you mean, intense?” she questions, watching as a Beta boy, donning a mischievous grin, upends a tub of the paint on his friend’s head.  Octavia’s tone remains light and evasive.

“Oh, you know, nothing much.  Lots of liquor, some fights; naked dancing . . .”

“But it’s winter!” Clarke protests.  The two of them step neatly aside as the Beta boy sprints hollering up the path, his yellow-headed companion in hot pursuit.  “They’re going to dance naked when it’s so — ” she cuts herself off when she turns back to Octavia, seeing that she is being teased.  

“Well, maybe not _naked,”_ Octavia grants with an eye roll that tells Clarke that she finds this lack of debauchery thoroughly disappointing.  Privately, battling a suddenly hedonistic impulse, Clarke agrees.  “But I guess it gets pretty sweaty.  The fights are real, though — from what Lincoln says, anyway.  Light a bonfire and add lots of booze and pheromones, and somebody’s bound to get hurt.  Get ready for the pissing contests.”  While Clarke digests that information, a group of villagers moves aside to allow them to pass.  Curiously, all of them bow their heads deferentially in response to Clarke’s nod of gratitude.  One, a young woman whose pheromones scream of Alpha, offers Clarke a winning smile.  

“They’re so hospitable,” Clarke remarks once they have passed.  “I mean, I know we spent a good three weeks fighting them for our lives, but it’s actually a welcoming culture, isn’t it?”  

Octavia stares at her.

“Jesus, Clarke, are you actually a dumb blonde?” she snorts disbelievingly as they approach the tents.  “It’s not grounder culture, it’s _you._  They’re afraid of you.”  It’s Clarke’s turn to stare.

“Afraid of _me?”_  She follows Octavia into the tent in a huff of disbelief.  “Come on.  This is a culture of _warriors;_ why would they be afraid of me?”  Beginning to rummage through a trunk on the floor, Octavia fixes her with a look of purely incredulous disappointment.  

“Well, maybe it’s more awe,” she amends, “but still.  Omegas are really valuable, Clarke, and _you_ — well, you’re everything an Alpha could want.  And I’m an objective source.”

Clarke wrinkles her nose.

“Objective?”  Octavia smirks.

“All right, maybe not totally objective.  But I have a mate, you know.  But _you_ — you’re a leader, and a healer.  Plus you’re like, alarmingly attractive.  Seriously, it’s distracting.  And I’m not even into you like that.”  Despite herself, Clarke lets out a snort of mirth.  

“Okay, so I’m an Omega,” she grants.  “So what?  That doesn’t make me _special.”_

“How many grounder Omegas did you see today?” Octavia asks her in lieu of a reply.  Clarke considers.  In the odd shift that seems to have taken place within her body since she recovered from the Omega fever, designation scents, in particular, have seemed more potent and distracting than usual.  Betas are neutral and comforting.  Omegas rile her up in a way that’s not unlike a sugar high.  Alphas . . . well, any Alpha other than Anya smells a little repulsive.  Anya smells . . . not that.  

“Two,” she says after a moment of thought.

“Right.  Kori and Adelina.  There are three more, actually, but two are _sekens_ and one is in heat, so she’s not around right now.  Omegas are rare, Clarke,” she says pointedly.  “You’re incredibly valuable.  That’s why the grounders treat you so well — well, that, and they don’t judge worth by whether you have a dick to stick in things.”

 _“You_ don’t judge by that, either,” Clarke points out.  “And you have a dick to stick in things.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t until I was fifteen,” Octavia says wisely.  “So I know what it’s like from both sides, don’t I?  Plus, you try growing up bigoted when you’ve only ever met two people and they’re your own mother and _Bellamy.”_

At that, Clarke can’t contain a snicker.  

“I’m serious!” Octavia protests.  “Besides, the grounders have every right to be afraid of you, as attractive as they no doubt all think you are.  Omegas are powerful, Clarke,” she elaborates when Clarke merely offers her a puzzled frown.  “They’re kind of the mama bear of the designations, you know?  They’re really fierce protectors, especially of their families and clans.  That’s why Omega leaders and warriors are so intimidating; they have a lot of influence, and they’re also _ruthless._  They’ll do anything to protect their own. Like, actually anything — you know that Lincoln told me an Omega he knew once defended his entire village from a group of Reapers single-handedly?  Where do you think you get the guts to keep all of us alive?  You’re terrifying to them.”  By now, Octavia has unearthed what appears to be a dress from the trunk and is studying the material intently.  

“But I’m not terrifying!” Clarke protests.  “I just don’t want people I love to die!”  The bundle of fabric Octavia tosses at her is accompanied by a pointed eyebrow raise.  

“Yeah, and you’ll do anything in your power to do it.  Anya and I know that you’re actually just a little teddy bear,” she says flatly, “but these grounders don’t know that, okay? Heda sent three-hundred prime warriors to kill a group of starving, incompetent teenagers, and you _annihilated_ them.  Then you negotiated a union with their Heda — which _no one_ has ever done, by the way; Heda tells people to join her, not the other way around — and convinced her not to kill the rest of these horrible intruders that fell out of the sky. Now you’re talking about storming into the fortress of their oldest enemy and taking your people and theirs back by force like it’s all in a day’s work just because you’ve decided that you have to.  Face it, Clarke: you’re scary.”  

Clarke wants to protest, but in trying to catch the cloth it has landed partially over her head, and she’s currently too involved in untangling herself to be able to respond.  When she emerges, Octavia breezes by on her way to the washstand, seizing her wrist as she goes.

“Oh, also, they’re calling you Skaiheda,” she adds as she rights Clarke, who in being yanked has lost her balance and threatens to topple onto the water pitcher, bolt of cloth and all.  At Clarke’s deeply admonishing glare, Octavia raises her hands innocently.  “Don’t yell at me; I didn’t start it.”  

“I’m almost certain it was Callum.”  It’s Lincoln, who has emerged from the tent flap with as little warning as his young mate tends to give.  He shrugs off his coat; involuntarily, Clarke shivers with the gust of cold air he brings in.  In all of the hubbub of the past two days, she’s noticed that she’s increasingly more sensitive to temperature.  If not for Anya’s reassurances, she wouldn’t be able to help but be concerned.  Her reaction to the sudden chill doesn’t go unnoticed by Lincoln.  “How are you holding up, Clarke?” he asks warmly as he pulls Octavia into a hug.  “War Councils typically have more breaks, but since you and Raven came up with the idea of using the army inside the mountain, everyone got a little carried away.”  

“All right, thank you,” Clarke replies, grateful for his steadying presence.  As much as Octavia’s endless banter amuses her, the day has been weighted enough with serious topics that she’s ready for a little levity.  Perhaps a boisterous celebration is exactly what is needed, after all.  “I thought Heda wanted to meet with the generals and scouts?” Lincoln grins.

“She did, but Anya mentioned that she’d sent you off with Octavia to get ready, and Indra suggested that I make myself useful so that, and I quote, ‘minimal property damage ensues.’”  He delivers the news with an impish glance toward his mate.  At first, Octavia attempts to pout, but the sound of Clarke’s chuckles cajole her into granting him a sly grin.  

“So uh, about this party,” Clarke jumps in when the grin threatens to transform into a smirk a tad more lecherous than she wants to witness.  “Would someone mind filling me in a little more?  I don’t really know what to expect.”  

Octavia shrugs.

“I’m not the expert on them, myself,” she says offhandedly.  “The first and only one I’ve been to was a bit of a disaster, to say the least.”  Her tone is light, but Clarke sees a shadow pass behind her eyes.  She recalls Bellamy sharing the story of his sister’s arrest, and feels a pang of sympathy.  Already imprisoned, she wasn’t in attendance at the masquerade herself, but she remembers the solar flare and resulting visit from her mother.  There was no flare shelter in the Sky Box; the majority of the inmates fell ill as a result.  Being in solitary, she never saw Octavia being brought in, but she can’t help feeling a tiny pang of guilt.  At least she, Clarke, got to live a life before being arrested; for Octavia, it was one form of imprisonment in exchange for another.  

“You can handle clothes, then,” Lincoln contributes.  Glancing at him, Clarke sees that he is watching Octavia with a look like he knows exactly where her mind has traveled down memory lane.  “I’ll bring Clarke up to date.”  

“Don’t leave anything out,” Octavia teases.  The shadows have not quite faded from her eyes, but they’re lifting fast.  Clarke foresees a long round of bantering ahead.  “We don’t want her to embarrass herself in front of Anya.”  

At that, Clarke puffs up her chest in indignance.  

“I am perfectly capable of comporting myself with dignity in front of my Alpha,” she says dryly.  Lincoln and Octavia exchange a significant look; too late, it dawns on Clarke what she has said.  “I noticed some people aren’t, though!” she scrambles hastily when Octavia makes every move to speak.  “There were a lot of Alphas in that War Council, weren’t there?  Even Murphy was broadcasting, I mean, _Murphy.”_  As she hoped, the mention of the group’s favorite scapegoat is enough to divert Octavia’s attention.  

“He was, wasn’t he?” she chortles.  “Every time Roan spoke, he looked like he was going piss himself.”  While Clarke would usually protest the vulgar visual, she finds that her sympathy isn’t particularly high.  As worried as she is about Murphy, he’s still an unpleasant nuisance.  

Octavia is now up to her elbows in what looks like soot, only she’s gotten it wet and now resembles a half-drowned raccoon.  Clarke seizes the opportunity of attention to test a theory she’s been harboring all evening.

“Was the Floukru ambassador — ” 

“Luna,” Lincoln supplies, and Clarke restarts.

“Was it just me, or was Luna making eyes at Raven for that entire council session?”  Lincoln frowns thoughtfully.

“If by ‘making eyes’ you mean that she was watching her quite attentively, then no, it was not just you who noticed.”  Octavia’s eyes light up.  

“Really?” she asks excitedly.  “Ooh, Clarke, that would be so _cool._  Luna’s great; Lincoln says she’s the leader of her clan, and that the Floukru are so friendly and welcoming that outcasts from other clans go to Luna and she’ll take them in.  I think that’s what they’re planning on doing with us, actually,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.  She’s now scooping the wet powder into a small bowl.  Eyeing her warily, Clarke edges slightly closer to Lincoln.

“What do you mean?” she queries.  She’s heard similar things from Anya; that Luna is a good leader with a kind heart, one of Lexa’s oldest friends who fought with her to make Omega’s lives better in the Kongeda.  It is Lincoln who answers.

“Heda means to offer a place in the clans for any Skaikru Omegas and Betas who wish to defect,” he replies, moving in to control the wild movements of Octavia’s arm that threaten to upend the bowl of soot.  “Luna has agreed to give them a home with the Floukru.  There will be homes provided for them, and they will have a place there as long as they contribute.”  Clarke considers, digesting that information as she vaguely registers her two companions grappling with the damp ash.  

“And we can trust her to treat them well?” she questions.  It’s not that she doesn’t trust Lincoln’s judgment — he’s proven himself to be more than loyal — but the prospect of entrusting the Skaikru’s only remaining Omegas to a stranger warrants no small measure of caution.  Having successfully wrestled the bowl from Octavia’s grasp, Lincoln nods assuredly.

“We can.”  He seems so absolutely positive of his answer that it throws Clarke’s suspicion.

“How do you know?” she wants to know.  Lincoln smiles.  

“She’s my half-sister,” he explains.  “Same mother, different fathers.  We didn’t live in the same house, and she left when I was pretty young, but we grew up together here.  She spent enough time rescuing me from bigger Betas when we were kids — including our older brother — that I know she’ll help anyone who needs it.  She doesn’t fight fair, maybe, but I’ve only met three other people willing to fight so hard for people who need them.”  

“I can imagine Heda and Anya are two of the three,” Octavia remarks as Clarke absorbs what she has just been told.  “Who’s the third?”  Lincoln shoots her a glance like she ought to know better than to ask.

“Her name was Costia,” he says shortly.  The sound of the name drags Clarke’s attention back.

“I’ve heard that name,” she says suddenly.  “I think it was when I overheard Anya and Lexa one night in the tents.  Something bad happened to her, didn’t it?”  Lincoln and Octavia exchange a look.  

“Don’t concern yourself with Costia,” Lincoln dissuades her after a moment, in which he and his mate seem to have an entire silent conversation.  “And don’t bring her up around Leksa, whatever you do.  It’s a sad story, but we have much happier ones to focus on tonight.  It’s a celebration — right, _strik gona?”_ Clarke is about to press, feeling as though she has missed something important, but the use of Trigedasleng arrests her focus.

“Hang on,” she cuts in as Octavia throws her mate a wicked grin. _“Strik_ — what does that word mean?”  Lincoln breaks off Octavia’s eye contact with a stern look that doesn’t quite manage to look convincing.

“Little,” is his response.  Clarke considers that for a moment.

“So _strikon_ means . . .?” she trails off, trying her best to sound causal and unassuming.  Octavia pauses with the retrieved bowl held aloft in her hand; Lincoln’s lips twitch as they share a look.

“Little one,” he tells her.  Clarke nods; she has been assuming as much.  Still, the assertion is a helpful one to have.  

“And _skaifaya?”_  That query is followed by a pause, during which Clarke tries to give off an air as though it’s merely a word whose use she has overheard someplace.  The position of Octavia’s eyebrows lets her know her attempt is unsuccessful.  

“Anya been calling you that?” the Alpha asks airily.  Eyes flickering between them curiously, Clarke nods.  Lincoln’s eyes are fastened on Octavia’s when the latter answers.  “Sky fire,” she says simply, giving Clarke a knowing look.  “It’s a literal translation.  She’s calling you a star.”  Clarke nods.

“That’s about what I’d figured from it,” she says offhandedly.  At that, Lincoln seems to come back to himself.  He pulls away from Octavia slightly and fixes Clarke with a hard look.

“It’s not that simple,” he says pointedly.  “The Trikru set a lot of store by the stars.”  Clarke squints.

“What do you mean?” she asks carefully.  Again, his lip twitches, but his countenance remains serious when he replies.

“They are sacred to us,” he replies solemnly.  “The stars are our gods — not in your sense of a god, but more as in spirit. _Keryon._  Our belief is that we share a soul with those we are fated to love, and that they inhabit the stars.  We cannot be whole until they are one with us.  We make take others to warm our beds, and love others along the way, but those are time-fillers, space-fillers.  The stars are our souls, and when one falls to Earth, we say that it is someone’s soul come to join with their body on the ground.  It means that they have found the one they are to love, and that their spirits will be one.”  Clarke’s mouth hangs slightly open; beside Lincoln, Octavia looks slightly smug as Lincoln adds with unwavering seriousness, “And so, little Omega, you fell from the sky.  Anya is not giving you an endearing nickname, Clarke of the Sky People.  She is saying you are her soul.”

Clarke stares.  

“How am I ever supposed to act like a grounder if I’m missing _critical_ information like that?” she protests desperately after a moment, blank of any other possible response that won’t result in a blatant hormonal display, either in the form of arousal or tears.  

“Well, pillow talk, for one thing,” Octavia comments, already back to rummaging through a basket in search of something.  A moment later, Clarke sees her snatch up a small paintbrush with a flourish.  “But honestly?  You’re doing great so far.  Only one thing can make you look even more like a true grounder than you already do.”

“And what is that?” Clarke demands.  

Octavia turns around with a grin.  She brandishes the ash.

“Warpaint.”  

* * *

All around the square, the lanterns have been lighted and strung upon the branches of the trees that whisper in the dusk breeze.  A bonfire roars brightly in the center of the square, throwing dancing shadows across the tree trunks and the faces of the villagers already gathered there.  It is evident that during the War Council, a group of villagers took it upon themselves to prepare a banquet and set up long tables.  Still others have fashioned garlands of flowers, and as the _gonakru_ begin to filter into the square, the elder women of Tondisi crown them with festoons of goldenrod, asters, and black-eyed Susans.  

Emerging from the shadowed dusk, Anya pauses at the edge of where the firelight casts a wide circle of brightness across the square to take in the sight.  Already, people are dancing arm-in-arm in a space cleared between the tables, all clad in their most festive dress.  A loud burst of laughter rises from near the fire, where a group is already drinking merrily.  Others have chosen to take plates of food and stand conversing, chattering gaily while a cluster of middle-aged Betas sets the rhythm of the gathering with drums and polished, antique stringed instruments salvaged from the Old World.  

It is the kind of night that sets her soul alight with joy and the frivolous lightness of the night before war.  

Stepping into the light, she bows her head before a grandmotherly Beta and a legion of young women who must be her grandchildren, allowing them to coo over her as the elderly woman adorns her head with asters.  Nearby, she sees Lexa smirk a little at the sight of the young Betas squealing and attempting to press closer to run their hands along the muscles of her arms.  With a smile, she gently shakes them off, and moves further into the ring of light.  

“I see age is just a number these days.”  Lexa steps up beside her with a light smirk.  Though she is dressed from head to toe in her finest regalia, her hair braided and wild, her head is unadorned by flowers.  No one would seek the honor of laying a hand on Heda, and even if they dared, Heda’s influence goes beyond the reach of crowns.  Lexa’s leadership, her guidance, her poise and strength, put her well beyond material symbols of power.  

“Whatever could you mean?” Anya replies loftily, keeping her gaze trained aloofly above the crowd.  Lexa _tsks_ in her throat.

“Well, let’s just say that no one of any age seems able to take their eyes off you tonight.”  It’s the kind of comment that Anya is well accustomed to at this point in their friendship.  Anya, after all, is the one who taught Lexa everything there is to know about everything, women included.  She can tolerate a few jibes and jokes at her expense in return.  Still, at the memory of the teenaged Betas’ hands on her, Anya shudders slightly. 

“It is scarcely relevant; I care for none of them,” is her stoic reply.  Lexa ought to know this by now.  She knows that she is uncommonly attractive — irresistible, even; she is the second strongest Alpha of their clan, but it remains irrelevant.  In the seven years since the loss of her first mate, no one has drawn her fancy.  What she and Lexa had, they both know, was a mutual choice made in the name of friendship and comfort rather than attraction.  

“Oh?”  Lexa raises her eyebrows and indicates a spot across the square with a nod.  “Not even one?”  Anya follows her gaze to the place where the lamplight fades into dusk across the square.

Her intake of breath shudders in her throat.  

In the gathering dusk, with the firelight glowing on her golden skin, Clarke looks like an otherworldly being.  The deep blue dress hugs generous curves, cut low to frame warm skin, flaring out just above the knee.  Hardly needed in the light and warmth of the square, a jacket is slung over her arm.  More than the dress, more than the light, it is the glow on flushed cheeks of laughter and a full chalice of wine accompanied by something deep and smoldering in those brilliant blue eyes that makes Anya’s breath catch in her chest, a woman caught unawares.

Happiness looks good on Clarke, she sees.  

Across the square, Clarke’s eyes shine back at her in recognition, and Anya wonders how she must look, frozen and staring like she can never look enough.  She can sense Lexa’s smirk beside her, peripherally notices Octavia whacking Lincoln on the shoulder and whispering conspiratorially at the sight of them.  Vaguely, she’s aware of how much of a meet-cute moment this makes, but no matter how foolish it occurs to her she should feel, she can’t tear her eyes away.  

When Clarke’s eyes darken with a blaze that looks unmistakably like hunger, she knows she’s not the only one.  

In a dreamlike state, it seems, Anya moves across the square, unaware of the revelers around her.  All she can see is Clarke, the look in her eyes that draws her in and blinds her to anything but the woman before her.  She is struck dumb, shaken; when between two tables they finally meet, all that she can do is hold her stare.  

“See something you like?”  Clarke’s voice is a low rasp made huskier by the wine she clutches in her left hand.  Her scent swirls around her, heady and _Omega_ and inviting.  There is ash around her eyes, shadowy upon her eyelids, and a few delicate spikes edge in from her hairline.  Up close, with the lamplight settling into the depths of her eyes and her ample cleavage on full display, she looks rather more like a creature of the night than Anya has bargained for.  

It seems that Clarke’s heat, far from abating in the face of war, has deepened.  

Theoretically, Anya is prepared for this — or at least, she has convinced herself that it’s true.  She knows, logically, that Omegas at the precipice of their heats are more noticeably in tune with their instincts.  They become needy and hedonistic; almost kittenish in their affection.  They crave touch and comfort, and also darker desires less innocently fulfilled.  Clarke will need her in the next week, need her in a way deeper and more nuanced than before.

Anya thrills to the thought.  It is an Omega’s instinct to seek an Alpha during their heat, and it is an Alpha’s privilege to indulge their every need.  Clarke, who on Earth would have had her first heat at least three summers ago, will know that need for the first time.  She will want to be held and possessed and nuzzled and doted upon, and oh, Anya longs to give.  Every part of her yearns to wrap her Omega in her arms and bring her home to a place untouched by war, and to give her everything she needs.  She will hold Clarke down the way Clarke wants, press her into silky furs until she cries; she will cherish every inch of soft skin and curves and golden hair.  She will give and give until Clarke trembles, until the sweet little sounds she elicits grow so weary that she cannot take anymore.  Then Anya will hold her close; she’ll gather her Omega into her arms and press sweet things to her lips until she sleeps at last, and her body will know rest.  

Each vision flashes through Anya’s mind as she holds Clarke’s gaze, and she must be blushing, or else giving some indicator of the nature of her thoughts, for Clarke’s eyes grow even darker, and her plump lips purse impishly.  

“If I didn’t know better, Alpha, I’d say you were distracted,” she suggests with a knowing grin.  

Anya swallows hard.  

“Perhaps that is because I see something distracting,” is the most sophisticated response she can invent without embarrassment.  She’s pleasantly surprised to find that the words escape her with a roughness that comes across as more suggestive than floundering, if the new redness of Clarke’s ears is anything to go by.  

“Then maybe we should distract you more,” she says knowingly.  “Some wine, maybe?”  The small hand extended to Anya is offered with a pointed eyebrow raise.  

Anya allows a playful smile to grow.  

“Let us celebrate, _strikon,”_ she affirms, and leads Clarke into the fray.

* * *

It’s a party the likes of which Raven has never seen.  

Certainly, she attended a few get-togethers on the Ark and found them reasonably enjoyable.  Still, such occurrences were relatively rare, and after finishing school earlier than her peers, her focus was so firmly diverted to her mechanical training that she found little time or need to socialize.  Besides, the Ark parties were rather stiff and awkward, everyone so inexperienced with festivities that stomping ungainly in a sparsely decorated room was about the apex of anyone’s enjoyment.  

This is a horse of an entirely different color.

Everywhere Raven looks, there is an air of wild and unrestrained exuberance compounded by free-flowing alcohol.  Grounders flock into the square left and right, some stuffing themselves at the heavily laden tables while others choose to dance.  In every direction, it seems, there is someone half-dressed in leather and beads rolling their hips with abandon.  Abby and Kane, hovering near a pig roast, look moderately uncomfortable with the level of nudity on display, but no one else seems to care.  The grounders appear perfectly comfortable with flaunting their bodies, so at ease that even Raven has to admit that the sight of bronzed skin reflecting firelight is hardly disagreeable.  What is more, there isn’t a single person who appears not to be enjoying themselves.  The ambassadors, too, are caught up in the fray.  Abby and Kane, despite their awkwardness, look more lighthearted than she’s ever seen them.  Even Murphy, skulking as usual at the fringes of the crowd, is sipping on something amber and bobbing his head to the beat.  

It’s with mixed emotions that Raven watches Clarke with the grounder general, decorated with warpaint, throwing her head back to laugh uproariously as Octavia manages to upend an entire flagon of wine.  Lincoln roars with laughter as the woman called Indra shakes her head in peeved dismay.  At the same time, three of the Commander’s guards that Raven recognizes from their time at Camp Jaha are attempting to corral Clarke into joining what looks like a drunken game of horseshoes.  Anya is chuckling and running a hand along Clarke’s upper back, offering her a sip of something from her own chalice as Clarke deliberates.  Even the Commander, still and silent off to the side, wears a less harsh expression than usual, the fire softening the fierce lines of her face into something that looks, if not happy, at least accepting of a bit of levity.  All together, caught up in laughter and merriment in the bright flickers of the bonfire, they look like a joyful, close-knit, mildly inebriated family.  

It causes something bitter to choke the back of Raven’s throat.  

While a little over a week in the company of the Trikru has eased her initial impression of them as a group of bloodthirsty barbarians, Raven remains torn.  Even with the realization that they treat her, Clarke, and even Murphy with dignity and respect, she cannot help keeping her distance.  The Trikru have been nothing but courteous to her, and yet, watching the revelry before her unfold, she can’t help feeling as though it’s a closed circle into which she hasn’t been invited.  The rapidity with which Clarke and Octavia have wormed their way into grounder culture is lost on Raven, made easier, she knows, by the presence of their mates.  With someone there as significant impetus, their transition into another life is eased.  

She misses Finn so badly it hurts.  

“So you are the one they call Raven.”  The woman Raven recognizes as the Floukru ambassador has stepped up beside her, appearing out of nowhere from the outer reaches of the fire’s glow.  Clad in a long coat adorned with metal and buckles, she towers over Raven.  She makes an imposing figure, chin held high, eyes soft but glinting in the semidarkness.  Her hair is wild, russet curls in disarray.  There is something rough and disheveled about her, though not at all unkempt; she is strong-boned, fierce-eyed like the eagle Raven saw one morning at the drop ship.  A untamed, salty tang hangs about her in the air, something like the wind and the water and the sea Raven has never seen.  

She is handsome, Raven decides before her consciousness catches up with her.  Intense.

“You’re Luna.”  She remembers the Commander introducing her at the outset of the War Council.  She remembers the feeling of the woman’s heavy gaze, unrelenting.  

Chapped lips soften into a small smile.

“Memorable, am I?”  Her voice is softer than Raven expects, rough and low, but less harsh than her appearance would suggest.  She says Raven’s name the way the Arkers do, without the stiff, round vowels of the grounder accent.  

Raven huffs.

“Hardly.”  It’s out before she can stop it, and when she registers it, she winces.  As out of place as the grounders make her feel, the last thing she wants to do is anger an ambassador and send this peace treaty sinking to the bottom of the sea.  

Luna, though, merely looks amused.  

“Sorry,” Raven amends gruffly.  “Just — know your enemy, I guess.”  

Luna fastens her with an unreadable stare.  Nothing about it is hostile, but it causes Raven to shift her weight on her injured leg all the same.  

“And am I your enemy, then?” is her quiet reply.  Raven shakes herself a little, a wave of resentment rising.  

“You sent your people to kill mine.”  She can’t keep the acerbic bite out of her voice.

“My people took no part in this war until now,” Luna corrects her gently.  “But you have shown your brilliance in saving your people.”  Turning fully to regard her, Raven stares intently.  Luna gazes back with equal focus.  For a moment, Raven searches her eyes; she finds nothing but frankness and a hint of admiration.  A small needle of guilt pricks her conscience, and for the first time, it occurs to her the many assumptions that each side of this ceasefire has made.  Perhaps it is as Clarke says; they are all just people fighting for their own.

“How do you mean?”  She finds that it’s impossible to keep a note of confusion from her voice.  Clarke is the one people always credit with saving them, or sometimes Bellamy.  Never Raven.

“You built the bomb that destroyed the bridge.”  Raven winces a little, but stands tall, keeping her chin tilted high.  

“That’s right.”  She can’t help the note of steely pride in her voice, resistant to all criticism.  “I did it to save my people.”  It’s not quite a challenge, but it’s not quite not one, either.  

“You must be a brilliant woman to have engineered such a feat.”  With that soft nod, Raven is completely arrested.  

“I — what?”  Luna is regarding her with an expression of frank interest.  

“You were wise enough to plan ahead, to see a possibility and design an opportunity to carry it out,” she elaborates.  Amber eyes are steady with earnestness.  “It was why you were able to win.  Most Trikru warriors are excellent at thinking on their feet, but they can only react to the moment.  You saw the full picture, and you used it.”  Raven shifts again, searching for something to say. 

“I’m an engineer,” she relents finally, and makes a conscious effort to stave anything but pride out of her tone.  “Blowing stuff up is kind of my thing.”  To her surprise, a grin overtakes Luna’s features, transforming the fierce expression into something bright and warm.  

“Your friends must be glad to have you on their team,” she acknowledges, and just like that, the bitterness returns.  Raven’s eyes rove over the scene, settling on Clarke, who is letting Anya stand behind her and show her how to throw a horseshoe like a woman in one of the ridiculous rom-coms salvaged on the Ark.  

“I don’t think so.”  Luna follows her gaze, and for a moment, they are silent, watching Callum taunt Clarke for her poorly thrown horseshoe.  Anya only smirks like she’s won no matter what way the game goes.  

“Ah.”  She hears recognition dawn in Luna’s voice as she lets her eyes settle instead on Murphy for a breath of fresh air.  “She is the one who turned the boy in.”  

At that, Raven turns back around.  She can feel the harshness choking her throat.

“Clarke _killed_ him,” she corrects sharply.  “She turned him in, and then she put a knife in his heart.”  Luna’s steady gaze, though she looks troubled, remains unchanged.

“From what I heard, she granted him a merciful death,” she says mildly.  “The Trikru way is to avenge murder with death by a thousand cuts.  At her hand, he died by one.”  

“That doesn’t change what she did,” Raven snaps.  She can feel her voice rising with dull fury.  “Finn was _good._  He made a mistake, war was too much for him — he never knew how to handle conflict . . .”  She loses traction halfway through, feeling instinctively the wrongness of defending him, but unable to stop herself.  She clenches her fists, feeling her chest heave with the effort of containing the conflicted feeling that constricts like iron bands around her heart.  

“I see,” Luna says, and there is new knowledge in her voice.  “You loved him.”  Raven twitches.

“Not the way I thought I did.”  It’s an impulse, that response, and Raven realizes as it escapes her that it’s the first time she’s admitted it, either out loud or to herself.  “Finn was my best friend; he was my family.”  As she says it, it occurs to her how much more truthful that is than the version she has been retelling to herself, over and over again in the night when she lies awake staring at the ceiling of a tent.  Perhaps she loved Finn like that once, years ago on the Ark, but she doesn’t even know that for certain.  She loved Finn in a way that defied categorization; as though she could possibly explain what he meant to her.  When the drop ship fell from the Ark, she missed him like a lover; when the light left his eyes, she missed Finn.

Worst of all, she thinks Clarke did — and still does — too.  She can’t even hate Clarke for what she did anymore.  She knows, deep down, why it all unfolded the way it did.  

Maybe she doesn’t have to remember any of it beyond what she wants to.  Maybe it’s enough not to remember Finn as the tortured boy torn between them, driven to murder by an obsession that would drive him mad.  She knows who Finn was; she loves who Finn was.

Perhaps that is enough.  

“I just loved him, you know?”  Raven realizes that she is confiding more in this grounder, an utter stranger, than probably makes sense.  “People can be meaningful to you without meaning something specific.”  

Steadily, Luna nods.

“I understand,” she affirms.  “It is what I feel for my people.  I am their leader, they are my friends and family and subjects, but I love them as simply mine.”  Raven blinks, then rediscovers eye contact.  

“You’re their leader?” she repeats, not understanding even as she does why she is invested in this particular point.  “I thought only ambassadors attended the War Council?”  She’s surprised that she has retained this bit of information.  At the same time, she realizes that she has been trying, subconsciously or not, to reject the absorption of anything meaningful about these people, as though by keeping her distance she can reject the notion that their side has the potential to be the one that is in the right.  

“Usually they do,” Luna confirms.  “But the Floukru are small, and don’t need much in the way of a leader.  I exist as a symbol, perhaps, of peace and stability for them, but I trust that they can govern themselves while I am away.  It is not my habit to foist duties off on anyone else.  Anything my people need, I will do myself.”  

“Even if those people weren’t originally your own?”  Raven may be ignoring the grounders to the best of their ability, but she isn’t oblivious.  She’s overheard the conversations between Octavia and Clarke, Anya and the Commander.  She’s heard what the solution for the defectors will be.  

Luna, for her part, doesn’t seem particularly surprised that Raven has this knowledge.  

“Many of the Floukru come from other lands,” she says lightly.  Raven thinks she detects a note of pride in the way her shoulders straighten.  “There is no reason to deny them refuge when we can give it freely.  Besides, we can always use an extra hand.”  It’s reasonable enough, what she’s saying, but it’s in Raven’s nature to be suspicious.

“You’re not agreeing to take the defectors just because they’re Omegas?” she questions warily.  It occurs to her as she says it that she can’t get a read on the woman in front of her.  Her scent is tinged with many facets from which no designation clearly sticks out.  The most prominent note is that of the salt water and wind, and something that smells like wood; not fire or smoke, but sandier, like what she imagines driftwood to smell like.

Luna doesn’t appear phased by her bluntness.  Her eyes betray a glimmer of surprise.

“You think that we will give you homes only because you can breed?”  She sounds shocked enough by the insinuation that Raven can’t help feeling the slightest bit guilty over her assumption.  

“Sorry,” she mutters, and averts her gaze.  “I know it seems like a lot to assume, but . . .” 

“Things were different in the sky,” Luna supplies.  “I understand.”  There is a pause, during which Raven watches Murphy’s face contort with horror as a female Alpha attempts to lure him out to dance.  She can’t help chuckling inwardly at the sight.  

When she turns back, she can feel in her own expression that she looks apologetic.

“I’m sorry I implied that,” she offers.  The weight of Luna’s gaze is heavy in her stomach.  “I guess I don’t really know anything about your people.”  There is another long, easy pause; Luna’s eyes rove out over the sea of revelers, lingering briefly upon the fire.  

“After the bombs, the first Floukru came down from up north,” she says after a moment.  “They had had a city, one of the grandest in the land, and while it was destroyed, some who had lived there escaped the bombs, and moved away.  The old city, as the legend goes, held a statue in the water, gifted to them by the people of a far distant land.  Along with it, words were scripted in the Old Language upon its base.”  

 _“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore,”_ Raven quotes on a breath in realization.  Luna turns upon her in the light. _“Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me; I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”_  Luna’s eyes are bright.

“The people of the water held this promise in their hearts.  I hold it for them now,” is all she says, but Raven sees the glowing behind her eyes, and reads in its gathering light the thousands of other sonnets she does not say.  

She turns and smiles softly, and Raven feels it roll over her like an ocean wave.

* * *

There was prerecorded music on the Ark, but nothing in Clarke’s life thus far has prepared her for the experience of hearing live music played on Old Earth instruments in the evening air of early autumn.

Everything about tonight seems infused with a kind of magic that defies explanation.  The smell of woodsmoke, the crackle of the fire; the taste of wine and fresh food on her tongue and the whisper of the night breeze — nothing is what Clarke expected of Earth when she came.  The blue dress — the first brand-new item Clarke has ever worn — is light and warm against her skin.  She is healthy, well-fed, and for the moment, at least, there is no immediate threat for the first time since coming to Earth.  There is laughter in her ears and heat in her belly and her heart.  It scarcely seems possible that a month and a half ago she was alone in her cell in space, awaiting the birthday that would mean her death, never dreaming that she might ever feel fresh air on her skin.

The stars glitter above her, and glancing up, Clarke has never been so glad to being seeing them from farther away.  

“Klark.”  Anya has materialized in front of her, clearly having escaped Callum and Jean’s aggressive debate about the rules of drunken horseshoes.  She looks particularly radiant tonight, Clarke thinks.  With the front of her hair swept off her face, her high cheekbones rosy with the wine they have been steadily consuming, her eyes sparkle with a genuine enjoyment that Clarke isn’t sure she has ever seen before.  

“Hi,” she murmurs in return.  A wave of the Alpha’s scent washes over her, and she has to make a conscious effort not to swoon.  With the new knowledge that her heat is creeping through her veins, keeping herself composed around Anya today feels like an impossible feat.  The last few times Anya has come near her, Clarke’s knee-jerk response has been to step into the Alpha’s embrace, bury her face in her neck, and breathe in.  She’s lucky that Octavia has been too drunk to notice.  

Rather than anticipating her move, as she has been doing, however, Anya doesn’t move in close.  Instead, she hesitates a foot or so away, an odd look in her eyes.  

Then, as Clarke watches, she sinks slowly to her knees.

The hitch in Clarke’s breath is audible as she takes in the sight of Anya down on one knee before her, her hand uplifted in offering, head slightly bowed, hooded eyes gazing up at her with a dark warmth that causes Clarke’s knees to weaken.  She recalls, vaguely, the rundown that Lincoln gave her earlier in the evening about Trikru party etiquette; how Alphas will kneel before their mates to offer themselves up to dance.  Even with this more innocent explanation in mind, the sight of Anya kneeling before her stirs up thoughts that are far less appropriate for a public setting.  

For some reason, it hits her, seeing it, that this is real.  All of the excuses, the light touches, the longing looks; the weeks that have built up to this, and it’s actually real.  They haven’t discussed any of it further after their brief admission earlier in the pools — and once this business with the mountain is over, it will warrant discussion — but the fact true remains regardless.  Anya is going to be her _mate._  After eighteen years spent trapped in space and a year spent locked alone in a cell, Clarke at last has someone to whom she can entrust the fragile remnants of her heart.  She may have known Anya for fewer than two months, but the fact remains that somehow, wondrously, this is the person Clarke will love for the rest of her life.  

Drawing a deep breath and letting the scent of her Alpha send her head spinning, Clarke takes her hand and allows herself to be pulled to where dozens have already begun to dance.  

Clarke has danced before, at the illicit parties in the warehouse rooms of Alpha Station.  Those dances, though, were of the sort suited to their location; uncoordinated grinding and everyone’s hands doing far more wandering than their feet.

She is pressed to Anya head to foot, nose to nose, breathing in her heady scent as the pheromones send a tremble through her limbs.  Anya’s hold is strong, her own arms wrapped around the Alpha’s neck as they sway.  So close, their skin grows hot everywhere they touch.  Somehow, Clarke feels calm and simultaneously desperate, like she needs to get closer even though they are already as close as close can be.

Surrendering herself to the feeling, she closes her eyes and allows herself to be swept away.  

“You are lovely, you know.”  Anya’s murmur runs through her body like a low thrill of electricity.  “Stunning, I believe is the word you use.”  Eyes still closed, swaying, Clarke can’t help but smile.  

“And you’re too chivalrous to be true,” she mumbles into her collarbone.  “My knight in shining armor.”

“My armor is leather.”  Clarke’s lip twitches.  

“Even better.”  They are silent as they continue to rock, but one of Anya’s hands slides up her back, coming to rest at the nape of her neck.  She leaves it there, splayed protectively across sensitive skin.  A quiet sigh escapes Clarke.  

“This song is often played at bonding ceremonies,” Anya muses after a long moment during which Clarke simply breathes as they sway.  Clarke hums against the curve of her neck.

“What are they like?”  On the Ark, bondings were a matter of civil ceremony.  Clarke has seen movies, but she has never witnessed a true wedding.  An image dances through her mind of herself in a bright dress, standing in a sunlit field with honey eyes shining back at her.   

Anya’s other other hand moves to cradle her lower back.

“Beautiful,” she whispers back, and Clarke doesn’t know whether she’s referring to bonding ceremonies or something else.  “Bondings are a joyous occasion; entire villages will gather to witness a union and dance the night away.”  Clarke smiles again at the image; she feels a slight shudder run through Anya at the sensation of lips against her neck.  

“I hope I get to see one,” she murmurs.  Anya’s hand presses more firmly into her back.  

In the corner where the musicians sit, a blend of final notes announces that the song is over.  Coasting slowly to a halt, Anya removes her hands and steps back.  Clarke opens her eyes, pouting a little at the loss of contact, confused.  

“Klark, Luna has offered to take in your people when the mountain falls.”  The set of Anya’s brow is solemn; she looks, not for the first time today, a little hesitant, though there is seriousness mingling with the uncertainty in the tremble of her lips.  When Clarke only gazes back steadily, she coughs a little to clear her throat and continues.  “We will not force anyone, of course, but . . . if your Skaikru Omegas are interested, Luna would like to extend the offer to them and to any of your Betas as well to come and live in her villages.  In her hands they will be safe; the Floukru will give them health and protection, and they will flourish among her people.”  Clarke eyes her with a look in her eye that’s cautious, with a lingering undertone of hope.

“How?” she asks.  Anya lowers her voice, her eyes serious as she explains.

“They will be given homes — good ones; safe and warm and comfortable, with Alphas if they so desire.  They will be taught how to hunt and cook Earth foods and how to raise gardens, how to build and fight and heal.  They can live as they wish to, be what they wish to.  They will have the freedom to choose a mate.  The clans will protect them and teach them and guide them.”  Clarke watches her carefully, sensing that there is more to be said that is leaving her nervous and uncertain.  

“And I?” she asks casually.  

Anya’s eyes burn bright.

“If it would suit you . . . you could come home with me.”  At the suggestion, Clarke shifts on her feet to pull herself out of the burn of heat the words have sent through her.  “Not _with_ me, not if you do not wish it!” Anya corrects hurriedly, misinterpreting the movement as discomfort.  “Of course, if you would rather go with the others to live with Luna’s people, you would be very happy there!  I only meant — Nyko lives in Polis, but Tondisi and the surrounding villages have no healer; you would be highly valued as a member of the community.  And there is space, I have — lots of space, I — ”

“Where is your village?” Clarke interrupts her smoothly.  Anya blinks herself out of her fumbling explanation and looks to her in surprise.

“Close by,” she says.  “Merely a half-hour’s swift trot to the west.”  

Clarke hesitates purposefully.

“Are there mountains near your village?” she asks.  Anya nods.

“There are.  They are tall and in winter they are capped with snow.”

“Are there trees?”

“There are ever so many.”  

“Is there a river that I can learn to not drown and evade water snakes in?” Clarke’s eyes sparkle with mischief, and Anya allows a glimmer of a laugh.

“Of course, _strikon.”_  She’s chuckling a little now, and the sight and sound of it is so rare and precious that Clarke cannot help but lean back in.  She steps closer until their bodies brush; reaching out, she catches Anya’s wrist and runs her thumb across the backs of scarred knuckles.  When she looks up, Anya’s eyes are burning dark, and the heat in her belly is enough to tell her that they match her own.

“And will you be there?”  She adds it in a lower murmur, every ounce of teasing gone as she traces the worn lines of Anya’s hands.  They are warm in her own.  The contact feels somehow familiar, and Clarke knows that if she were to close her eyes, she would know them just as well.  

“I will,” Anya affirms.  Clarke feels the heat in her own gaze burn straight into her heart, and then further down.  

“Then I will have everything I could ever need,” she answers lowly, and allows the gravity between them to assert its pull.  

* * *

There is no telling what time it is when the festivities draw to an end.  The grounders, Clarke has noticed, have quite a different sense of time from the regimented, military hours of the Ark.  They measure time by shadows and sunlight and the feel of the air.  Regardless, it is well past the night’s darkest hour when the first of the revelers begin to straggle off to bed.  When Clarke and Anya follow soon after, Clarke is hardly able to keep her eyes open, but they are far from the last to retire.  She catches a glimpse of Octavia and Lincoln among a group engaged an energetic sort of line dance as Anya leads her stumbling feet out of the square, and spots Callum throwing back a tankard of moonshine like it’s water.  

Still grinning with the effects of kisses and wine, too tired to even see what’s in front of her as they enter the tent, Clarke collapses into bed beside Anya and is asleep before her head hits the pillow.  

It seems only minutes later that they are awakened by shouting outside.  

 _“Anya, Clarke, CLARKE!  Get up!  Hurry!”_  With a groan, Clarke rolls over and squints open her eyes.  Beside her, Anya stirs.  A frantic rustling, and in a moment, Octavia is standing over them, face pale and eyes wide and frightened.  “Bellamy just called me on the radio — Mount Weather’s launched a missile, and it's headed this way.  We have four minutes to get everyone out of this village before it's a hole in the ground.”  


	7. Gods and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall of the mountain, feat. Clanya, Becho, and Memori.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DOUBLE UPDATE. I intended to post this as one chapter, but it ended up being a grand total of 65,716 words, and that, frankly, is effing ridiculous. So I'm posting chapters 7 and 8 at the same time -- there is smut in chapter 8, which I've decided counts because it's all part of the same update. I hope you read this chapter too lol.

When Clarke stumbles out of the tent not thirty seconds later, chaos has already begun to devolve.  The faded stars in the eastern sky suggest that dawn is about two hours away.  There is no telling how long they have slept, but the fires in the square have not quite yet died.  It is apparent that some partygoers were still awake, for a squadron of villagers accompanied by Callum and Jean is sprinting in every direction down the cobblestone streets, hollering for those sleeping to wake.  Lincoln can be seen aiding an elderly woman across the square, while Octavia tears up the street banging on doors and shouting.  The villagers are painfully slow to emerge; some stick their heads out of second-story windows, calling down questions to the street below.

A blaring hangover is forming in Clarke’s head, but she pays it no mind as she rips on her boot on the street and casts a look frantically at the sky.  There is nothing visible as yet, but she knows it will be less than a minute before a flaming streak announces the impending missile.  

Behind her, Anya bursts from the tent so quickly that she runs smack into Clarke.  She makes only half an effort to right the Omega as she bolts in the opposite direction from the square.  Boot secured, Clarke follows her lead and takes off through the field of war tents, parting confused warriors as she goes.  

“Get to the woods!” Lincoln screams as he sees her go flashing by.  “Take everybody who will follow and bring them as far into the trees as you can!”  Clarke opens her mouth to reply, but he’s already gone, herding a group of little old ladies into the edge of the trees.  She skids to a halt and whirls, this time running smack into Lexa at the corner of the street.  The Commander doesn’t stop, but shouts to Clarke as she bursts into a building at the other end of the street.  Clarke stumbles bewilderedly into the room not two seconds behind.  

“Children,” she says tersely, already pounding up the stairs to the second floor.  “Their parents were taken by the mountain recently; they live alone.  I don’t know — ”

“I’m on it,” Clarke cuts her off, clattering up the stairs behind her.  She enters the front bedroom in time to hear Octavia’s shout of _two minutes!_ from below.  Finding a little girl bleary-eyed and half-awake, she corrals the pup to her feet and down the stairs.  Behind her, Lexa follows with two older children in tow.  As they stumble out onto the street, Clarke glances up again.  With a jolt of dread, she sees the telltale light in the blackened sky.  

She notes the distance to the trees with another flash of despair. 

“Klark, pick her up and _run!”_  Lexa has swung one child onto her back and is urging the elder of the two to run.  Clumsy in her franticness, Clarke sweeps up the little girl, and seeing the light of the missile grow brighter, she begins to run.  

The weight of the child against her chest barely registers with her.  As the size of the missile continues to grow, she picks up speed, dodging the tables still laid out from the celebration.  In front of her, made faster by her training and a life on Earth, Lexa disappears into the trees and can be heard shouting to everyone to move back further.  Clarke evades the last of the tables and, with the woods directly in front of her, breaks out into a flat-out sprint.  She just registers the sight of Anya fleeing into the woods at her left before she breaks through the barrier of the trees.   

She’s barely through when she’s knocked flat by the force of the shockwave as the impact lights up the forest as bright as day.  

* * *

It takes a minute for Clarke to come to.  There’s a ringing in her ears, and her hearing feels strangely muffled, as though her ears have been stuffed with cotton.  Her vision swims, blurry, as she forces her eyes open.  The forest spins before her, a nonsensical blur of strange shapes and colors as she struggles to get her bearings.  

The pup is sobbing against her neck, protected from the blast by Clarke’s body curled over hers.  Her chubby little fingers clutch at the collar of Clarke’s jacket, tiny fingernails digging into the Omega’s skin.  Hot tears paste Clarke’s hair to her neck.  Rapidly taking stock of the situation and finding that she can, in fact, move all of her limbs, Clarke rolls onto her back with the child on her chest, arms wrapped protectively around her.  She murmurs nonsense into the tangled hair pressed to her face as the little girl continues to cough out strangled sobs.  

“Clarke!”  The shout is muffled in Clarke’s ears, but she forces her eyes to roll upward to find the source of the noise behind her.  The movement causes a heavy surge of pain to roll through her head.   _“Clarke,_ thank god.”  Abby’s face swims into her vision, hazy above her.  “Are you all right?”  Clarke lets out a grunt, the child heavy on her chest.  “You’re — ?  Oh god.  Whose blood — ”  

“Not mine,” Clarke croaks out.  The pup has a small cut above her eyebrow, but in the manner of head wounds, it’s bleeding profusely.  The blood mingles with tears on her skin, matting the child’s hair against her collarbone.  “She’s okay.  Mom, Anya — where’s — is she — ”  

“ — Alive, I saw her with the Commander,” Abby supplies hurriedly.  “They made it just before you.  Where’s Kane?  Raven?  I haven’t seen — ”

“Don’t know,” Clarke chokes.  The child is light, but Clarke had the wind thoroughly knocked out of her when she landed, and she’s still struggling to regain her breath.  “I didn’t see anyone else . . .”  She blinks once, twice, and Abby’s face, pale and drawn, grows a little clearer.  Huffing out a cough, Clarke wraps her arm tighter around the child and struggles into a sitting position.  

All around her, people are slowly clambering to their feet, knocked flat by the force of the missile’s impact.  Clarke thinks she sees Murphy rolling to his feet a short distance away.  A thin layer of smoke fills their air.  There is a dull flickering of light on the edges of the tree trunks indicating flames from the area of the village.  Even in the lingering darkness, it’s bright enough to light the forest.  From every direction, she catches the sound of shouts and the pounding of running feet as people search the scene for loved ones.  Clarke’s heart sinks as she takes it all in.  

She doesn’t know how many people were in this village earlier tonight, but this is nowhere near all of them.  

“Clarke!”  Octavia comes jogging up, accompanied by Lincoln.  Both are sooty and look deeply shaken, but neither appear to be hurt.  “You’re okay, thank god.  Who’s that you’re holding?”  For the first time, glancing down, Clarke takes in the features of the little girl in her arms.  She’s small, three or four years old at most.  Her hair is wispy blonde, her cheeks streaked with tears and soot.  Besides the cut above her eyebrow and a bruise blooming on her cheek, she appears mercifully unscathed.  

“I don’t know,” Clarke confesses.  “Lexa told me to grab her from that house we went into — wait.  Where’s Lexa?”  

“All right,” Lincoln answers swiftly.  “She came just ahead of you with the other two _yongons._  Her cousins.”  Clarke blinks.  Her ears are still ringing, and when she moves her head, it feels like there’s water behind her eyes.  

“Cousins?”  Somehow, it never occurred to her that Lexa might have family.  The Commander is so utterly solitary that it is odd to imagine her with relatives.  

“Her cousin’s pups, actually,” Lincoln clarifies.  “Her cousin Jarl and his mate were taken by the Maunon recently.  The neighbors have been helping the pups.  Jan, the oldest, is ten summers; the middle one is called Mira.  The one you’re holding is Myka, I think.”  Fighting the rocking feeling in her brain, Clarke struggles to absorb that information.  

“Never mind that,” Abby breaks in hurriedly.  “We can introduce everyone later.  Right now, there are a lot of missing people we need to go look for.  No doubt there are injuries to attend to.”  Her voice is flat, steady, but Clarke reads in the overly calm words the true horror of what she isn’t saying.  At a glance, there look to be around two hundred people around them.  It’s a mere fraction of those who were at the bonfire last night.  More than injuries awaits them outside the shelter of the trees.  

Fear settles like lead in Clarke’s stomach.  Her throat feels constricted.

“Who’s missing?” she manages to choke out.  The line of Abby’s mouth is thin and white.

“At least Kane and Raven, Wick, the Commander’s guard with the curly hair — ”

“— Indra, Callum, and Luna,” Octavia supplies in addition.  “Plus about three hundred others.  Some people ran to the thermal springs for cover — we might find them there.”  The knot of dread only eases a little, but Clarke remains stoic as she responds.  

“We’ll check there, then.  Where’s Nyko, does somebody have healer’s bags — ”

“I don’t think it’ll do much good,” Abby says quietly.  At her tone, Clarke looks up, and seeing her staring at something through the trees, struggles to her feet to see.

Where the right side of the village was, there is a crater in the earth fifty yards across.  Fires flicker at the edges of the pit, flames licking up into the lightening sky.  The buildings nearest the site where the missile hit are reduced to rubble, while many of those further away threaten to cave in.  The smoke is thicker outside the woods, but already, Clarke can begin to see the losses.

She opens her mouth, but finds that there are no words to speak.  

 _“Gyon op gon Heda!”_  Gustus’s shout breaks through the smoky haze.  All around them, people scramble to their feet, those who are able rising to support the injured.  It’s difficult with trees obscuring her view, but Clarke sees Lexa emerge from a corner of the wood.  Immediately, the gathered fall silent, all regarding their Commander with the same expressions of shaken horror and plaintive bewilderment that Clarke can feel on her own face.  

“Heda!”

“HEDA!”  

_“What happened?”_

_“Who did this?”_

_“Was it the Maunon?”_

_“Where are the ambassadors?”_

Clarke can only understand some of the rapid-fire Trigedasleng, but it isn’t difficult to imagine the nature of the cries directed at the Commander.  Lexa, for her part, remains calm, but Clarke can see even from a distance that she hasn’t quite managed to keep the stoic mask in place.  Her eyes echo the horror in her subjects’ faces, and the set of her jaw is tight.  At her side, Gustus holds the smaller of the other two children; at the sight of them, Myka reaches out an arm with a cry.  Clarke nearly echoes it when she sees Anya step up beside them, looking stunned but unhurt.  

“We have been attacked.”  Lexa raises her voice to be heard from every corner.  “We vowed yesterday that our fight with the mountain was to be a rescue mission; save our people, punish the wicked, and spare the innocent.  Be certain: there are no more innocent after this.  The mountain has sent fire to burn our people when they slept.  This is an act of war.”  There’s a steely coldness in her voice that carries despite the distance.  It sends a chill through Clarke’s blood; in this moment, calm and steady surrounded by death and destruction, Heda is more formidable than ever.  

“There are people dead, people missing and people injured,” Lexa continues when the murmurs that have arisen die down.  “Find them.  Tend to them.  Pray over your dead and give them their last rites.  And rest assured, this atrocity _will_ be answered.  Blood must have blood.  Today, the mountain will bleed.”  She concludes with a sweeping movement of her arm that seems to be a motion of dismissal.  At the gesture, the crowd breaks, and the noise level rises steadily again as the assembly begins to stream into the ruined village out of the trees.

Between the trees, Clarke sees Gustus scanning the crowd.  After a moment, his eyes fall on where their little group stands huddled; when he registers their presence, she sees him turn to Lexa and Anya and speak urgently.  Both follow his gaze.  When their eyes fall on them, their expressions alter, and they begin to make their way hurriedly through the trees.  Clarke and her companions move toward them; legs shaky, Clarke stumbles a little as she reaches Anya and collapses into her arms.  

 _“Klark.”_  Anya’s exhalation is frantic in her ear; when her arms tighten around her, her shoulders drop with relief.   _“Ai niron.  Yu ste ogud?”_  As relieved as she is, she sounds far too strained to compose herself to speak English.  Clarke nods into the crook of her neck.  Breathing deeply, she gulps down Anya’s scent, letting the temporary relief wash over her.  

“I’m okay,” she reassures.  Despite it, her words come out choked, and she buries her nose further in the Alpha’s neck.  Her hands fist tightly in the fabric covering Anya’s shoulders.  “I’m okay.”  A squirming sensation against her belly, followed by a disgruntled whimper, reminds her that she failed to set Myka down in her haste to reach Anya.  The pup is squished between them, still clinging to Clarke’s jacket.  

At the feeling of movement, Anya steps back, confused.  

“Who — ”

“Myka!”  It is the boy, Jan, who lets out the yell, breaking free from Gustus’s side to rush over to them.  The other child, Mira, a little girl of about six, kicks until Gustus sets her down.  Not releasing her hold on Clarke, the little girl begins to cry anew at the sight of her brother and sister.  They approach at full speed, streaked from head to toe with ash.  Even with their blonde hair filthy, the family resemblance is clear; solemn grey eyes peek out from peaked, freckled faces.  

 _“Mama.”_  One hand clinging to Clarke, the other outstretched towards her siblings, Myka’s cries turn plaintive.   _“Mama!”_  The sound wrenches Clarke’s heartstrings; beside her, Anya looks agitated.  

“Who is missing?”  Lexa’s sharp query wrenches Clarke back to reality before the strange maternal feeling in her heart can fully manifest.  She listens as Octavia rapidly relays the situation.  Though her eyes are troubled, Lexa’s face remains grim and composed.

“Find them,” she orders when Octavia has finished.  “Linkin and Onya — search the springs and any houses that are still standing.  Nyko has already gone to search for survivors; he will join Onya.  Klark, you and Abi kom Skaikru tend to the injured.  One of you go along to the springs with Linkin in case any of our missing people are hurt.  Okteivia, find Jean.  Tell him to go with you to ready the horses.  Be ready to leave immediately once our people have been found.”  

“I thought we were marching at dawn, Heda.”  It is Abby who speaks.  She is regarding Lexa with a new deference that until now Clarke has never seen her display.  

The reflection of the fire burns cold and menacing in Lexa’s eyes.  

“That was before the Maunon decided to declare an open war upon our people.  We ride on the mountain tonight.”  

* * *

In retrospect, they should have known the mountain wouldn’t stop there.  

When Clarke emerges from the trees flanked by Lincoln and Abby, the smoke in the village has thickened low on the ground, making it nearly impossible to make out the forms of the people nearest to the crater.  What only a few minutes ago was a village with which Clarke was growing familiar is now an unnavigable maze of rubble, ash, and worse things that Clarke would rather not consider too deeply.  The ground is hot from the force of the missile’s impact.  In every direction, people are shouting to one another through the smoke.  

Leaving Clarke in charge of searching for survivors on this side of the village, Abby departs for the springs with Linkin while Anya begins to enter any houses that aren’t on the verge of collapse.  Octavia runs off obediently, yelling for Jean and the missing Callum in equal measure.  Not too many moments later, two shouts echo back, signaling that the two guards, at least, have been found.  

Moderately relieved by this turn of events, Clarke turns to her allotted task with mounting dread.   From what she can see, the ruin at the site of the missile’s impact is absolute; there is no chance that anyone who was standing where the crater now lies is still alive.  She doesn’t have high hopes for anyone in the surrounding area, either.  There lies the faint possibility that people are alive under the rubble, but she thinks it’s likely that if the falling buildings weren’t enough to kill them, the mere force of the shockwave probably was on its own.  Even if anyone survived the blast from that distance, Clarke thinks it’s highly unlikely that any of the healers, with their basic first aid supplies, will be able to do them any good.  With that in mind, she sets out for the third ring of the perimeter around the site of impact, where buildings stand partially collapsed, and begins to call out.  

As she starts out, she sees Anya and Nyko emerge from a building nearer the square.  Anya has a young boy — Clarke thinks she recognizes him as one of Octavia’s fellow _sekens_ — slung over her shoulders in a fireman’s carry.  As she emerges onto the street, the boy kicks impatiently, and Anya is obliged to set him down on his feet.  In Nyko’s arms is a woman, her arm bent unnaturally at the elbow and the side of her face crimson with blood.  A wave of nausea runs over Clarke at the sight.  The blood isn’t the issue; she stood present for many of her mother’s surgeries back when she was in medical training on the Ark.  Somehow, after all the horrible things they’ve done to survive, the thought of the atrocities committed here tonight are too much for her to bear.  For the mountain to have fired on innocent people —

“Heda!”  Octavia’s yell comes from the nearby edge of the village, where the horse paddock stands mercifully untouched.  If any of the horses remain after such a fright, Clarke thinks it will be a miracle.  “Luna’s here, she’s all right!  And . . . ”  Her voice drowns out as pounding feet thunder into the square.  From where she’s knelt, fingers feeling for the pulse of a man caught half beneath the rubble, Clarke strains to see through the smoke as the sound grows nearer.  

Another shout is heard, and then Luna is breaking through the haze, Octavia and Raven at her heels.  

 _“Raven.”_  Moving away from the man, whose pulse is so weak as to be beyond help, Clarke jogs the short distance to them.  She lets her eyes close momentarily in relief, the days of stony silence forgotten as she folds her sister Omega into her arms.  

Raven returns the embrace, but only for a moment, distracted by something behind Clarke in the trees.  Turning, Clarke sees that Lexa stands at the edge of the woods, no longer accompanied by Gustus or the three children. 

“Heda,” Raven defers to her quickly.  Listening to the urgency in her tone, Clarke realizes that she has never addressed Lexa directly before.  “There’s something else.  I’m getting interference on the radio, like somebody’s tapping it from a secure line somewhere.”  Lexa looks to her sharply.

“The mountain?”  She questions quickly.  Raven shakes her head.

“I mean, it’s definitely the Mountain Men; nobody else has that kind of technology, but it’s not coming from there.  It’s too strong for it to be being broadcast from under all that concrete.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was coming from _here,_ but that doesn’t make any sense — ”  As Raven finishes speaking, three things happen in quick succession.  

Lexa steps forward out of the cover of the trees; seemingly immediately, the _seken_ Anya carried from the house collapses to the ground.  In the next instant, a volley of gunfire rips through the square, and everyone scatters.  

Clarke dives out of the way, landing hard on a pile of rubble behind a partially-collapsed wall.  Near her behind another wall is Nyko, who, in his haste, somehow managed to carry the wounded woman with him.  Even with the sky only beginning to lighten, there’s enough firelight from the crater that the square is well-lit.  From this angle, crouching with her weight precariously balanced on her elbows, Clarke can see the center of the square where, left without an easy means of cover, Luna has flattened Raven to the ground and keeps her down with an arm over the Omega’s head.  

When the echo of gunfire ceases, Clarke cautiously leans out a little further.  It’s a moment before the others start to show themselves.  When they do, the smoke is just thin enough for her to make out their hidden forms.  When the young boy collapsed to the paving stones, Anya fell back into the shadow of the nearest doorway.  Near her, Octavia has ducked behind a stout pillar that last night held the tallest of the torches that lit the square.  Lexa, having been jolted back into the cover of the woods, is crouching behind a tree at the forest’s edge.  

 _“What’s going on?”_ It’s Anya who yells from the safety of the doorway.  Clarke sees that though she’s emerged a bit from the shadows, she doesn’t dare set foot past the door frame.  Clarke feels a flash of fear for her Alpha and prays she doesn’t come any further into view.   _“Who’s shooting at us?”_

“It’s the Maunon!”  Octavia, still flattened against the pillar.  “They must have sent a spy — it’s how they knew the War Council was here!”  Even from this distance, half-concealed by smoke, Clarke can see the flash of cold fury in Lexa’s eyes.  

“Find them!” she shouts back.  “If there is a spy of the mountain amongst us, I want them brought to me.   _Now.”_

 _“And how the hell are we supposed to do that?”_  Beneath Luna’s arm, Raven is glaring incredulously at the Commander.  “Any of us move, and they’ll shoot us before we can get anywhere near them!”  

“It’s coming from the ridge,” Luna adds, not raising her head from the ground.  Pressed flat to the fragmented cobblestones, they’re low enough to remain out of range, but Clarke can see that if they sit up even a little, they will be hit in an instant.  “There’s no other place they could see us from without being noticed first.  They have cover; we can’t hit them from here.  Someone will have to get up close.”  Thinking back quickly to yesterday, Clarke recalls seeing the nearby ridge where the foothills begin to edge up from the village.  It’s mostly barren, lined with boulders and scrawny pine trees and shrubbery.  It’s fairly low, which explains why Luna and Raven are out of the line of fire, but it’s enough of a hike that it will take a bit to work their way up there without notice.  Instantly, she sees Luna’s point; there are any number of places the sniper could be hiding, yet whoever it is has an excellent vantage point.  Anyone attempting to sneak up the hill from the front, even in the lifting dark, will be spotted in an instant.  

Quickly, Clarke takes stock of their situation.  It will be a two-person task.  Someone will have to move up the ridge from the side while the other distracts the sniper at the front, staying safely behind the rocks as much as possible.  It will have to be someone who knows the terrain and can move quickly among the rocks in the dark.  In the safety of the woods with clear access to the ridge, Lexa is the only candidate, and seeing the Commander assessing the situation as well, Clarke knows that she is aware of it.  The second person, however, is less easily yielded.  Their one advantage is that from this distance and with the addition of the smoke, the sniper’s accuracy is compromised.  The scattered volley of shots only happened to catch the young _seken;_ likely, the sniper is shooting at random.  

Even still, it will be difficult to move from their hiding places without attracting notice.  For most of them, it’s impossible.  Anya can’t move beyond the shelter of the open door; Raven and Luna are stuck where they are.  Nyko is behind a wall that stands alone; if he moves from behind it, he will be an immediate target.  Octavia is closest to the woods, but there’s no source of cover in the fifty-meter dash she would have to make across the square other than the low fire pit where a few embers still burn.  It would be enough to afford her cover, but not to get her safely to the woods.  

Clarke, however, has a perfectly clear path.  There’s about a ten-yard gap between her and the next building, but once she reaches it, she’s safe.  There’s an alley leading behind the next house, and after that, it’s a mere five or six feet to the woods.  As long as she can reach the safety of the nearby building without getting hit, she’ll have a straight shot.  

Across the square, she meets Octavia’s eyes, and sees that she already knows what Clarke has just figured out.  

“Okay!” she calls out, knowing that her voice will be enough to catch everyone’s attention without the sniper hearing her plan.  “Lexa and I will go.  Once we’ve caught them, the rest of you find everyone and warn them.  Keep searching for survivors, and use the houses by the springs to tend to the wounded.  When I count to three, Octavia, I need you to draw their fire.”  Octavia nods grimly, and Clarke grits her teeth.  “Ready — one, two — ”

“Klark, _no!”_ Anya calls out, but by then they’re already in motion.  When Clarke hits three, Octavia ducks out from behind the pillar and sprints for the fire pit.  Clarke is in motion as soon as she loses her cover and the shots begin.  Feet pounding on the hot pavement, she dashes across the square and behind the house just as Octavia dives for the fire pit.  She doesn’t have a moment to spare to see if the warrior has been hit.  Hurrying through the dark alley, Clarke reaches the other end and, seeing Lexa waiting in the trees just over a yard ahead, charges the last few feet through the smoke to the edge of the woods.

A few scattered shots issue behind her, but Clarke is already in the shelter of the trees.  Stumbling to a halt beside Lexa, she braces her hands on her knees and gasps in a few lungfuls of smoky air.  

Lexa looks vaguely impressed.  

“Good,” she says shortly when Clarke has caught her breath.  “Now, would you care to tell me how you’re going to get close enough to kill this Maunon without a gun?”

* * *

Ascending the side of the ridge in the dark is no small feat.  The rocks are numerous and slippery with dew, and Clarke is unused to scrabbling over such terrain, particularly in the dark.  The eastern sky is beginning to lighten, affording her a little more visibility, but out of the reach of the fire’s light, she’s forced to feel her way along the rocks as she climbs.  She’s going slowly on purpose, careful not to make a single sound.  This maneuver requires her completely silent approach.  Still, she has to hurry; Lexa is allowing her ten minutes to ascend before she moves into the open and draws the sniper’s fire.  Every minute she waits is another minute that the others remain trapped, unable to search for or aid the injured.  

It doesn’t help that on top of everything else, Clarke’s overly sensitive nose is making the smell of smoke rather nauseating.  

The awareness of her heat has backed off drastically compared to the evening.  Her sense of smell is still heightened, and she’s battling a heavy urge to remain no farther than a foot away from Anya at all times, but the other symptoms have comparatively lessened.  Now Clarke understands what Anya meant when she talked about ill or injured Omegas having heats.  The stress of being bombed, shot at, and having to chase down a sniper has put the more secondary demands of Clarke’s body on hold.

It hardly seems possible that just a few short hours ago, she and Anya were dancing and discussing their plans for after the mountain’s fall.  Even harder to believe is that the time that has elapsed between when Octavia first woke them up and now is scarcely greater than ten minutes.  It feels like the past few minutes have eclipsed the length of years.  

Reaching a cleft in the rocks, Clarke pauses to assess the situation.  Lexa allotted her ten minutes for the climb, understanding her lack of familiarity with the terrain, but she’s been making fairly good time.  From here, she can see the glow of the fires and the smoke crowding the square.  Low to the ground, Octavia, Raven, and Luna are just out of sight.  She can’t see the others, but from this distance, Clarke can just make out the shadowy silhouette of the rock behind which Nyko is crouching.  

Squinting upwards through the darkness, Clarke considers her options.  Once she leaves the cover of this boulder, there’s nothing between her and where the sniper is hiding.  Up ahead, she can make out a distinct outcropping of rocks about thirty feet above her.  A little beyond it is a tiny grove of scrawny evergreens; neither are very tall, but both are thick enough to afford the sniper cover.  Until Lexa moves and the sniper fires, she won’t know which it is.  In order to not get hit, Lexa will have to dodge between rocks with significant speed, leaving Clarke little time to pinpoint the location and charge while the sniper is distracted.  If she fails, she’ll be alone on an exposed ridge in the dark with someone a lot bigger than she is who has a machine gun and likely a way to see in the darkness much better than she can.  

They have one exactly chance to pull this off without somebody getting killed.  

As something clatters below her, Clarke tenses, ready to spring into action the moment Lexa breaks her cover.  Bracing her fingers against the rock, she steadies herself to run.

Then a flash of movement catches her eye.  

Directly across from her on the opposite end of the ridge, Kane and Lincoln burst out from behind a stack of boulders and sprint for the pines just as a battering of gunshots announces that Lexa has made a run for it.  

Heart dropping in her chest, Clarke abandons her cover and breaks into a run.  

Evidently having spotted the two men, the sniper redirects his aim.  Out of the corner of her eye in the light of the brightening sky, Clarke sees Lexa change course and begin to race uphill.  Clarke by now has nearly reached the summit of the ridge.  Clumsy in her haste, she scrabbles across a rock and leaps across a gap for the next.  In the dim light, she misjudges, and tumbles to the ground with a yelp as her ankle slips and the rocks give way.

Gasping, clutching her ankle, Clarke watches the scene unfold with wild eyes.  Lincoln and Kane have separated, each taking a separate side as they sprint towards the trees; a moment later, a yell announces that Kane has been hit.  Lincoln veers sideways down the ridge to catch him as he falls and begins to roll.  Below, Lexa has gained speed and is now rapidly approaching the pines.  A few shots follow Lincoln’s retreating back, but none make contact; abruptly, the sniper ceases firing and steps out of the trees.  

Lexa summits the ridge in plain sight as the gunfire stops, and Clarke freezes, seeing what’s going to happen as the Mount Weather guard raises his gun.  

Then a dark shape shoots past Clarke from directly beside her at top speed, and Clarke lets out a shriek as a bullet misses Lexa by inches and Murphy collides with the sniper, smashing the gun from his hands and slamming him into the ground.  

By the time Clarke has shaken the twinge from her ankle and jogged over, they have the Maunon subdued.  Lexa is sitting backwards on his shoulders tying his arms with her leather belt while Murphy lies across his kicking feet.  Lincoln has stopped Kane, who was evidently shot in the thigh, from rolling down the hill; they’re now making their way over with Kane leaning on Lincoln’s shoulder for support.  

“Where are the others?” Lexa is spitting as the Maunon struggles to free himself.  “Are there more, or are you alone?”  

“How many missiles are there?” Clarke adds harshly.  “Who ordered the attack?”  Ignoring Murphy and Lexa, she kneels down in the dirt at the man’s head.  Even in the half-light, she can see his face clearly.  Emerson.  

“Alone,” Emerson chokes out, his face half smashed into the ground.  “No more missiles.  Cage — Cage ordered — I gave coordinates — ”  Lexa digs her fingers into his neck, and his voice is cut off.  The Commander’s eyes burn with fury.

“And if you’re lying?” she hisses into his ear.  Clarke shakes her head.

“He’s not,” she says frankly.  “Or at least, if he is, he knows the consequences.  Bellamy said he has a son.  That’s leverage, and it’s only a radio call away.”  

 _“Osir nou frag yongon op,”_ Lexa grits out.  Clarke shoots her a significant look.  

“Maybe not, but he doesn’t know that,” she says pointedly, throwing in enough Trigedasleng that Emerson can’t follow what she’s saying.  Maybe the grounders don’t kill children, but the mountain has proven time and again that they have no such qualms.  A little bluff won’t hurt their cause.  

It works.  

“I’m not lying,” Emerson coughs, and Lexa eases up on his neck just enough to let him speak.  “Don’t hurt — Brandon; I promise . . .”  

“See?”  Clarke smirks.  “We know he’s telling the truth, and we know there are no more missiles.  We’ve still got an army ready to go to war, and we need to go _now.”_  Seeing Lexa’s questioning look, she elaborates.  “He’s not wearing a hazmat suit, which means they’re already drilling the Hundred for bone marrow,” she says flatly.  “They’ve started killing them.”  

* * *

By the time they descend the ridge with Emerson, significant progress has been made.  Lincoln informs them that Indra is safe, as is everyone who hid in the springs.  The only known casualties so far are strangers to Clarke, which, while it doesn’t ease her heartache, fills her with relief that at least her loved ones are safe.  

“Klark!”  As they re-enter the square, Anya comes jogging out of the mist.  Clarke breaks away from the group to meet her; colliding in the center of the square, she heaves a sigh of relief as her Alpha folds her into her arms.  Her heat doesn’t come flaring back with the same intensity it held last night, but something sparks in her belly that died down when they were chasing down Emerson.  

“Good to see you alive, Griff.”  Raven looks a little uncertain, but the relief in her eyes is obvious.  “Glad you got the asshole — wait a second.  Is that _Murphy?”_  Her gaze is fastened on the Omega in question, who is accepting Luna’s thanks with grudging humility.  Clarke only spares him a glance.

“Yeah.  Saved Heda’s life, oddly enough,” she says with a shrug.  “Don’t ask me what made him do it.”  She thinks she knows, though; saving Heda from certain death puts Murphy in Lexa’s good graces.  If he’s hoping to be taken in with the rest of the defectors and not cast out like the traitor that he is, doing Heda favors is a strategic, albeit ass-kissing, move.  

At the moment, though, Murphy is the least of Clarke’s worries.  “What about everybody else?” she asks of Raven.  “Where’s Wick?”  Just like that, a wall goes back up in Raven’s face.

“Dead,” she says flatly.  “Just like about a hundred others.”  Clarke barely has time to process that before Abby is in sight, tending a woman who has what looks like a broken knee.

“Marcus!  What happened?”  She’s showing distinctly more concern than Clarke has seen from her in a while.  While she’s happy for her mother, it makes a slight wave of bitterness wash over her; Abby didn’t look that concerned when it was _Clarke_ who was unwell . . .

“Shot in the leg,” Lincoln supplies as Kane eases himself to the ground with a grunt.  “He’s fine, but he’s not going anywhere, I’m afraid.”  

“In that case, Skaikru will need a new ambassador to represent them.”  Lexa’s voice has risen to address all who are gathered there.  In response, everyone immediately falls silent.  “Abi kom Skaikru: you are a healer.  With this many wounded, your services are required here.”  Abby’s face twists into an approximation of a grieved grimace.  Her arms, Clarke notices, are coated up to the elbows in someone else’s blood.  It’s apparent that while they have been up the ridge dealing with Emerson, Abby has been working tirelessly to save the casualties of the bombing.  The results, she sees, aren’t promising.

Drawing a strained breath, Kane nods.

“We’ll find someone to speak for us,” he says decisively.  “Perhaps — ”

“Clarke is our ambassador,” says Abby quietly.  “She’ll negotiate on our behalf.”  

Silence falls across the square.  

Clarke regards her mother with shrewd apprehension.  Other than their brief words exchanged after the bombing, they haven’t spoken in the days since Clarke fell ill.  Between Finn’s death and the tension created by the Omega fever, Clarke has scarcely made eye contact with her in days.  

Abby is a strong woman, Clarke knows, and good at heart, but her strength is often shown through the necessity of the Council position she has always held.  Ensuring Skaikru’s survival has been her priority, and though she does her best to uphold her moral codes, there has been little room for anything but sacrifice.  As much as her heart is in the right place, she also is stuck in the Skaikru’s antiquated beliefs, and though Clarke thinks she’s learning to challenge them, the change isn’t going to happen overnight.  

To hear her casually hand over the reins of power to her Omega daughter is astonishing, to say the least.  

“Excellent,” Lexa says brusquely while Clarke is left staring at her mother in disbelief.  “In that case, we are nearly ready to leave.  You say your mechanic friend is dead, Reivon.” Raven flinches.  “Can you dismantle the dam alone?”  Meeting Lexa’s gaze steadily, Raven lifts her chin.

“Looks like I have to, doesn’t it, Commander?” she challenges.  Lexa only jerks her head approvingly.  

“Good.  Then let us dispose of this _ripa,”_ she says, kicking Emerson to indicate him, “and we will depart.  Clarke,” she calls for the Omega’s attention.  “You know these people; what they are like.  What punishment do you think befitting of this Maunon’s deeds?”  Over the prone figure of Emerson, Lexa’s eyes flicker at Clarke like cold fire.

It’s a bold move, and one whose connotations are made secret to no one in the group.  Less than a week ago, Clarke made the decision to put Finn to death and was met with fury and incredulity and deprecation on the part of the Skaikru.  Now, when the murderer is not one of the Skaikru’s own but a genuine outside threat, Lexa is gifting the choice of the punishment to Clarke.  She’s holding her up, Clarke realizes; giving Heda’s very pointed and public seal of approval to her validity as a political entity.  No one will dare disagree with Heda — which, Clarke realizes, is exactly Lexa’s move.  

What’s even more incredible to her is the realization that Lexa putting on such a public show of complete faith in Clarke’s capabilities means that she _has_ complete faith that Clarke will make the correct decision.  

Clarke’s eyes rove the scene.  The smoke has cleared a little since she climbed the ridge, and the sky is growing lighter by the minute.  It makes it all the easier to see the extent of the absolute destruction around them.  The beautiful village Clarke admired last night is half in ruins, so many of its houses flattened or else burned.  There are tiny fires flickering, bodies visible under the rubble.  People are crying everywhere, some struggling to help their families and neighbors while others mourn their loved ones.  Somewhere, a baby is crying.  

As she watches the sad scene evolve in front of her, Clarke’s eyes fall upon the edge of the woods.  Gustus stands among the trees, Myka in his arms, Jan and Mira at his side. The three children are watching the gathering of adults in the ruins of the square with solemn eyes.  Clarke sees tears streaked on all three young faces, and she knows what has to be done.

“Give him to the people.”  She raises her voice slightly so that all gathered around her may hear.  Most of all, she wants Emerson to know what she is choosing to do.  “Let all those who have lost someone here today decide how they want to punish the man who told the mountain how to kill their families in their sleep.”  

By the expression on Lexa’s face, Clarke knows she has done right.  

“So be it.”  Clarke shivers at the cold finality of it.  “We leave Luna in command to oversea proceedings here; she will see that it is done.  Let the guards take him, and when the dead are burned, they may burn him if it is their wish.  There is no forgiveness for what has been done here tonight.”  With that, Heda begins issuing orders to prepare to leave. Octavia runs off to find the horses and calm them enough to ride while Lincoln goes to find Indra and call the army together.  Catching Clarke in her arms for a quick kiss, Anya hurries off to their tent to gather weapons and armor.  Clarke promises to follow in a minute to prepare herself to depart; in glancing down, it has occurred to her that being woken by a bomb threat left her no time to dress.  

“Clarke.”  With a slight twisting feeling in her gut, Clarke turns.  

Abby is watching her with a look on her face like the day she sent her to the ground.  

“Mom.”  She doesn’t venture to say more; after all that has occurred, there is nothing that Clarke knows how to say.  There are no words that can cover everything of importance that has occurred up until now since the day Jake Griffin died.  

Abby takes a step closer to her.  The odor of the blood on her arms reaches Clarke’s nose, thick and gummy and far too fresh.

“Your instincts will tell you to take care of yourself first.”  She echoes her words from the Ark, and Clarke purses her lips.  

“That’s the plan,” she says steadily.  “I’m going to follow them.”  Abby shoots her a look.  

“You’re a diplomat, Clarke,” she says, and something makes the words come out a little stiff.  “You’ll do fine.”  It’s clearly meant as a compliment, but Clarke shakes her head immediately.

“I’m an Omega,” she counters, and for the first time, it feels like a weapon rather than a weakness.  Clarke raises her chin.  “Diplomats are supposed to be impartial.  I have no intention of being any such thing.” 

“Which is why you’re better suited to this than I am,” Abby tells her with a touch of earnestness.  This time, it’s said with a definite warmth that at this point feels unfamiliar. “I’m too impartial to make the tough decisions when they come along.  You never have been.”  Clarke shifts uncomfortably with that, unsure how to respond.  “You need to lead our people now, Clarke,” Abby whispers.  She’s leaned in so close that the smell of blood has grown nauseating, but for once, it doesn’t feel like she’s encroaching.  “I’m not strong enough to do what needs to be done.  But you are.”  Clarke breathes out heavily.

“What do I do if they won’t accept a truce?” she asks.  She may be prepared to go to great lengths to save those within the mountain, but Clarke isn’t a politician; she hates the constant back-and-forth of negotiations, as natural at it as she might be.  She’s not like Octavia, either, she realizes, who’d rather take orders and be done with it.  Clarke would rather have nothing to do with it at all.

Abby smiles at her grimly.

“Clarke, you’re asking the woman who sent a hundred children to the ground so that her daughter could live.”  Clarke stares.

“So whatever it takes, then?”  Abby nods.

“Whatever it takes,” she whispers.  “And Clarke — ”  Beginning to walk toward the tents, Clarke halts and looks back questioningly.  Abby’s eyes are wide.  “Bring your people home.” 

* * *

At a time like this, Clarke can’t help thinking of her father.

When Clarke first presented, a little younger than her peers with Abby’s position on the Council granting her access to more food and comfort, her parents’ reactions were telling.  Abby, while only pleased to have a healthy child, was noticeably disappointed.  She did her best to hide it, but Clarke knew that she’d been hoping that her only child would be an Alpha too.  With Clarke’s assertiveness and penchant for leadership, she wasn’t the only one who was expecting it.  To have the only daughter of a Council member present as an Omega wasn’t a disgrace, but there were those who expressed surprise.  People had expected different of Abby Griffin’s daughter.

Jake Griffin, on the other hand, was thrilled.  

Clarke remembers the day she presented, the sudden rage of hormones and odd tingling that made her lurch to her feet in her Earth Skills class, retching and coughing and trembling with the newness of the hundreds of sensations flooding her body.  Her mother was in a meeting, but drawing up schematics for a new air filtration system in Farm Station, her father was free.  Pike paged him, surprise and the tiniest bit of derision hidden in his tone.  

Jake sat with her on the floor of their little family bathroom, sympathetic but visibly delighted, as her body worked through the shock.  When at last Clarke grew steadier, he pulled her into a hug and told her how proud he was.  He spent the next hours explaining everything to her; what had happened to her body, how suppressants would work; how she could expect to be treated.  He wasn’t bold — Jake Griffin grew up on the same Ark they all did, surrounded by the same beliefs.  

Still, she remembers him reassuring her that things would be all right; that she was worth just as much as an Omega as if she’d presented as an Alpha instead.  Luckily, it was the one thing on which Abby agreed.  A doctor, in her opinion, was an excellent option for an Omega.  Clarke would just have to be content with a position of less prestige.  

Jake held her hand as she took her first suppressants and received the birth control implant.  After it was done, he allowed her to stay home from school for the rest of the day. She remembers drawing with him, leaning on the windowsill overlooking Earth.  

It’s hard not to think of how happy he would be here.  Clarke thinks of all that has happened since they first reached the ground; how she has grown.  She hopes Jake would be proud.

She knows he would like the Trikru.  He would take instantly, she thinks, to the woman who has given his daughter a new life.  Clarke knows that many of the Skaikru see grounder culture as savage, barbarian, even.  Hopefully, after last night, Abby, Kane, and Raven aren’t among them.  They at least, Clarke thinks, might finally be beginning to see that perhaps it is not the grounders’ culture that is savage, but their own.

The irony of the missile isn’t lost on Clarke.  Less than a month ago, the Hundred set off a bomb on a bridge that ended up killing dozens of grounders, including the young _seken_ of the woman who is going to be Clarke’s mate.  In the way of the mountain men, they found victory not fairly, but by use of superior weaponry.  It amounts, Clarke thinks, to a total imbalance of power that continues to be exploited.  She’s ashamed of having played any part in it.

Still, she reasons with herself, the Hundred used their bomb in war, protecting their people from annihilation.  The Maunon, on the other hand, dropped a bomb on hundreds of innocent people in the middle of the night.  There was no warning, no provocation, no possibility of a counterstrike.  The mere fact that they killed hundreds without lifting a finger while the grounders are rushing into battle on foot makes Clarke ill.

She can’t wait until this entire business with the mountain is over with.  As soon as all of this has been settled — hopefully with as few losses as possible — she wants out. Away.  She’s going to take Anya’s hand and get as far away from this mountain-Skaikru-designation drama as possible.  She didn’t think life on Earth was going to be easy, necessarily, but she didn’t exactly expect to be headed headlong into an actual, real-life war complete with actual, real-life swords two months after reaching the ground.  

Then again, there are a lot of things Clarke didn’t expect when her mother threw her off a space station with ninety-nine teenage criminals.  Did she expect, when she stepped out of the drop ship, that the next weeks of her life were going to be spent rigging up radios, fighting wars in the forest, escaping an underground torture chamber, meeting her mate, and defecting to a highly complex, highly fascinating culture whose numbers and history and language she can only begin to fathom?

No.  As it turns out, there are a lot of things Clarke didn’t expect.

* * *

Sharing a horse with Clarke is . . . problematic, to say the least.  

The ride to the mountain isn’t exactly long, but with an army of hundreds, they’re moving at a fairly slow clip.  Tradition dictates that Heda, Gustus, and the generals are afforded their own horses, and in the interest of not exerting their valuable and still-recovering Omega companions, it was determined prior to departing Tondisi that Clarke and Raven would ride, too.  Though Lexa offered, Murphy refused, citing a desire to stay in the back “in case we need to retreat,” but everyone saw through it.  There are only four horses.  Between Heda, Gustus, Indra, Anya, Clarke, and Raven, all four are more than taken, and from the look on her face as Lexa offered it earlier, it was wildly apparent that Raven had little desire to share a mount with the boy who shot her in the spine.  Murphy may be cowardly, but he isn’t entirely spiteful.

Even Anya has to admit he’s growing on her.  

In either case, with everyone else taking a horse for themselves, riding with Clarke was the obvious choice.  Now, several hours later, Anya is faced with the direct consequence of having a sleepy, pheromone-soaked Omega pressed right between her legs.  

It’s . . . distracting.  

Even with the prospect of war looming over her, safety from the immediate danger of the bombing has allowed Clarke’s body to resume its rather distracting practices.  Anya can feel the beginnings of heat fever pouring off of her skin, can feel each shudder and clench of the Omega’s muscles as waves of heat roll through her body.  Clarke isn’t in full heat yet, but judging by the way her body is currently reacting, it’s only a matter of days.  The only reason Anya can see that it hasn’t hit her yet is the threat of war in their immediate future.  Once this business with the mountain is over, she has no doubt that it will hit in full force.  

In the meantime, she will do everything she can to make Clarke comfortable.

The fact that both their sleep and their breakfast were stolen from them is by now beginning to show.  Clarke, who has been leaning comfortably against Anya for the duration of the ride thus far, has begun to shift a little disgruntledly.  Every minute or so, she readjusts herself and nudges her head into Anya’s chest.  It’s a wildly clear indicator of an Omega who wants something.

More problematically, each time she shifts presses her ass more firmly between Anya’s legs.  

The result is that Anya, for all the attempts she makes at subtly edging away, is currently possessed of a raging hard on.  What’s worse, there’s absolutely no way that Clarke hasn’t noticed.  In fact, going by the way she has consciously begun to grind her hips back into the Alpha behind her, she’s _well_ aware of what she’s doing.

It’s monstrously unfair, is what it is.  

As Clarke shifts backwards again, grinding hard up against Anya, the Alpha grabs her hips.

“Will you stop _doing_ that,” she hisses through gritted teeth.  With Clarke’s pheromones broadcasting to kingdom come, it’s almost guaranteed that everyone around them is fully aware of what’s going on.  Still, there’s no need to give them a show.  

“But I’m _hungry,”_ Clarke protests, and it’s almost a whine.  From the horse a little ahead of them, Anya sees Lexa shoot her a lecherous grin.  At this point, Clarke might as well announce aloud to the group that she’s horny.  The way Anya sees it, they’re headed for sufficient public embarrassment if she doesn’t come up with a way to distract Clarke soon.  Still, the fact that Clarke has gained enough confidence in such a short period to go from fearing mealtimes to whining for food is almost heartening enough to make up for it.

Almost.  

“It is best not to face war on an empty stomach.”  Anya does her best to keep her tone absolutely mild, and doing so, overshoots a bit and ends up sounding vaguely strained. “Lean forward for a moment — there is food in the saddle bags.”  Rather in the mindset of doing as her Alpha says, Clarke obeys, and Anya immediately discovers her error. With Clarke leaning forward and bracing herself on the saddle horn, she’s putting herself even more in Anya’s sights.  Seeing the Omega she hopes to mate within a matter of days bent over in front of her, Anya can only gape.  

 _“Anya.”_  Clarke’s impatient whine leaves her with absolutely no doubt that her gawking is blatant enough to be tangible.  Slamming her jaw shut, Anya shakes her head and forces herself to come to enough to dig through the heavily packed saddle bags.  It only takes a moment to find what she’s looking for; she urges Clarke back against her.    
“Here,” she murmurs into fragrant hair.  Clarke smells of ash and wine, but most potently of heat.  “Try this.”  She stole some bacon from the table last night before bed.  It’s cold now, but being a particular fan of it herself, Anya doesn’t see that that should diminish its taste.  She’s curious to see if Clarke feels the same.  Keeping one arm snugly around the Omega’s waist, she offers it with her free hand.  Clarke’s murmur of delight when she tastes it tugs a chuckle from her chest.   

“Good girl,” Anya murmurs reflexively.  She’s happy that Clarke is so openly appreciative of eating when just a week ago she was worried and confused at the thought of being offered food by Alphas.  She doesn’t expect the reaction the words incite; immediately, Clarke stiffens against her, belly clenching and body freezing up with a sharp intake of breath, and oh, that’s new.  

Interesting.  

Testing her theory, Anya leans forward a little, being sure to brush a hand along the Omega’s ribs under the pretense of steadying her.  “Do you like that, little one?”  She adds the endearment in _gonasleng_ on purpose for emphasis.  With the amount of time that Clarke has spent in the company of Octavia, Anya’s fairly certain that she’s picked up on the meanings of Trigedasleng pet names; still, she wants there to be no doubt.  As she speaks, she runs her hand up Clarke’s belly.  With the early morning sun shimmering on the edges of the dew, the day promises to be warmer than the past week, and Clarke has accordingly left her jacket unfastened.

She’s wearing a small amount of armor, but not enough that Anya can’t maneuver her hands where she knows they both want them.  

“Depends what you’re asking.”  Clarke sounds just the slightest bit breathless.  She’s speaking quietly enough that the others can’t hear, but Anya casts a quick glance around them just in case.  Other than Lexa, who she knows is valiantly pretending to ignore them, no one else appears to have noticed.  

To hell with it, Anya decides.

“I am _asking_ if you like the bacon,” she mutters pointedly into Clarke’s hair, “but if you are wondering if I am asking whether you like being my good girl, I am curious about that, too.”  And yes — there it is again.  A shiver shakes Clarke’s spine as the endearment slips past Anya’s lips.  Anya can feel her back shudder.

Even she is surprised with her own daring.  On any other day, Anya thinks, Clarke would whip her head around and give her that trademarked, wide-eyed Griffin stare.  Today, however, is not other days; Clarke is running on heat and pheromones, and her only response is to sink further back into Anya’s arms with a barely concealed whimper.  

“Don’t ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer to,” she mumbles half-heartedly.  Anya smirks.  

“Who says I am not prepared?” she counters teasingly.  She lets her fingers dance lightly up Clarke’s ribcage as she speaks.  She has two reasons for it — of course, part of her is solely focused on touching Clarke for absolutely no reason other than she _can,_ but it also gives her a subtle excuse to check up on her Omega.  Wanting Clarke to gain weight feels purely selfish, but Anya knows it’s for Clarke’s benefit as much as her own.  A healthy Omegas is valuable, yes, but a healthy _Clarke_ is much more Anya’s concern. 

Even with war looming, Anya is looking forward to bringing Clarke home.  Dazed as she is at the prospect that Clarke finds her a worthy enough companion to take a life with her, she feels a rush of pride at the thought.  Clarke, hoping for a comfortable, enjoyable life, has decided that she, Anya, is a good match.  It means that she thinks of Anya as capable of giving her what she needs, but also as someone worthy of building a life with.  

Knowing that, Anya can’t help evaluating her own life from new eyes, this time with the vision of Clarke at her side.  Unlike some clans for which food remains thin, the Trikru are fairly well-off.  Anya, as a general and a carver who has furnished much for her village, has earned herself a position of respect that has afforded her a little more than some. The village is small, roughly three hundred people to Tondisi’s seventeen hundred.  Anya is well known there, not only as a warrior but as a member of the close-knit community.  Her home is small but comfortable.  She has a garden that Clarke can use to grow herbs for a healing practice if she wishes, and plenty of room for the two of them.  There’s even an extra room at the moment, one that not long ago belonged to Tris.  Someday, if they have them, it may belong to their pups.

She wonders if Clarke will want pups.  If she doesn’t, Anya won’t protest, but she can’t help hoping.  Very little of her family remains; all but her father’s _nomon_ are now gone. Ever since bonding with her first mate, a family of her own has been something Anya has wanted deeply.  There is no official retirement age for warriors among the Trikru, but Anya is beginning to be ready.  Many, like Indra, choose to remain until age begins to wear on them, but someday soon, Anya thinks that she would like to turn to other pursuits.  She wants a family; she wants pups to coddle and teach.  She wants to dedicate more time to her trade, to a mate, to a family.  

She knows that it has been all but decided upon, but she hopes that Clarke will want the same.  

Against her, she can feel Clarke beginning to grow tired.  Even with Anya’s teasingly suggestive response, she has seemingly grown too weary to continue their banter for now. She’s finished off the bacon, as well as a small sandwich Anya snagged from the table last night, and her weight against Anya’s chest is growing heavier with relaxation.  Anya knows that with her heat around the corner, sleepiness is inevitable.  She shifts herself, allowing her body to serve as a refuge where the Omega can rest safely.  Clarke settles in, and silence falls as the horse plods steadily onwards.  

“What will happen to Mira, Myka, and Jan?”  The murmur comes after a long silence in which Anya assumes Clarke is sleeping.  She has tucked her face into Anya’s collar, one hand resting on Anya’s where it grips the reins.  

“I do not know,” Anya replies after a moment of thought.  “Likely, they will remain at home.  Myka is small, but the other two are not so young that they cannot begin to fend for themselves.”  In her arms, she feels Clarke give a start.  She turns her head on Anya’s chest to look up at her in dismay.

“They’re only pups!” she protests.  “They’re so little — they should have adults to take care of them!”  Her distress is magnified by the rampant hormones of her heat; she sounds nearly close to tears.  Anya soothes her with a rush of pheromones, curling a protective arm around her waist.  

“They will not be left alone,” she assures.  Clarke’s grip on her wrist has tightened.  “Neighbors will watch over them and see that they have enough to eat.  Leksa has another cousin who lives nearby, and she may take in Myka for the time being.  But Jan is already of ten summers; at twelve, our _yongons_ begin to take charge of themselves.  Many apprenticeships begin at nine, and by the time they are of fifteen summers, most are on their own.”  The pheromones serve to calm Clarke’s anxiously racing pulse, but only a little.  Her shoulders remain stiff against Anya’s front.  A quiet moment passes, in which Anya can sense the Omega thinking hard about something.  

“Anya,” she says slowly after a minute with the hesitance of one just beginning to realize the possibility of something unpleasant.  “How old was Lexa when she ascended?” Anya’s eyes flicker to the Commander’s back.  Lexa is enough ahead of them that she won’t be able to hear, but Anya is cautious all the same.  Heda does not often volunteer personal information, and though Anya has known her for nearly all her life, sharing doesn’t feel like her prerogative.  

“Twelve winters,” she says on a quiet breath, “though all _natblidas_ train for the Conclave from the time they are quite young.”  Clarke has lifted her head to eye Anya critically.  Anya keeps her gaze resolutely fastened on Lexa’s perfectly straight back.  

“And how young was quite young for Lexa?” she asks cautiously.  Anya is careful not to blink.

“Three.”  As soon as she says it, she can see Clarke reeling inwardly as she processes the information.  Stamped on the back of Anya’s eyelids is the image of Lexa, scarcely out of diapers, in the lineup of young _natblidas_ brought to Polis for training.  Anya wasn’t old enough yet to train her, of course, but she’d watched, already a _seken_ herself, with the understanding that by the time Lexa grew old enough to begin her training, both of them would be ready.  

Clarke, she sees, is catching on.

“So when she became her _seken,_ you were . . .?” she trails off, allowing Anya the opportunity to answer for herself, and suddenly, Anya understands.  Maybe some small part of Clarke is asking these questions because she’s curious about the Kongeda, but that’s not the main reason at all.  She’s asking because she wants to know more about Anya.  

“I was ten summers when we met,” Anya supplies, taken with the new understanding of Clarke’s interest.  “She was too young to train, but n _atblidas_ are brought to Polis the moment they are discovered.  I was there with Indra for the summer; she brought me because she knew that in a few years, when the youngest ones were ready, they would be taken as _sekens._  I chose Leksa.  I became her _fos_ during my fourteenth summer, after I returned from the first war with Azgeda.  They were little more than skirmishes, but I had proven myself, and Indra decided I was ready.”  It’s a lot to take in, and she knows it; she tightens the reins in silence as they begin to ascend a hill, allowing Clarke the time to absorb everything she has just heard.  

“Anya,” she says finally, and her voice is so tentative that Anya is immediately on alert.  “What is the Conclave?”  

Anya presses her lips together.

“It is the way that the Flame determines which of the _natblidas_ is fit to take on the Spirit of the Commander,” she says, careful to keep her voice even.  “When the current Commander dies and the Flame goes out, all of the _natblidas_ who have been trained are called to the arena.  The last one standing is chosen by the Spirit of the Commander, and ascends.”  She tries to put it as delicately as possible, but she sees Clarke’s eyes widen all the same.  

“And the others?” she whispers.  Anya only tightens an arm around her in response.  Clarke’s eyes remain shocked and troubled, but they are saved from delving into the topic further when Octavia’s voice rises above the heads of the _sekens_ she walks with, crowded behind Indra’s horse.

“Heda, we have word from inside the mountain,” she calls out.  Slowly, Anya sees Lexa’s head turn to regard the young warrior coolly.  “They’ve seen us on their radar screens; they know we’re coming.”  Clarke jolts a little in Anya’s arms at that, turning again to look to Anya in surprise.  

“How far from the mountain are we?” she wants to know.  Anya breathes deeply, not allowing the fear simmering in her chest to boil over.  This is different, she reminds herself; today she is entering the mountain not as a prisoner, but as part of an army.  

“Less than an hour,” she tells Clarke.  Ahead of her, she hears Lexa’s voice cut through the murmurs of the nervous _sekens._

“I hope you are ready for a war, Okteivia,” is her soft warning.  Octavia’s eyes flash steely green.

“I am always ready for a war, Heda,” she answers, and in her voice, Anya can hear a hint of pride.  Lexa nods grimly.  

“That is good,” she says quietly.  “For to war we ride.”

* * *

“So we have a minor problem.”  Octavia’s voice is tinny through the radio, but the reception is surprisingly good for something being broadcast on a walkie-talkie radio through fifty feet of bedrock and concrete.  She sounds relatively calm, but the panicked Trigedasleng shouts in the background alert Bellamy to the fact that the problem is, in fact, anything but minor.  “We crossed into Mount Weather territory a few minutes ago, and there are no trip wires or reapers — thanks for that heads up, Monty — but somebody neglected to inform us that _there would be acid fog.”_  Bellamy winces a little; even through the radio, Octavia can be scathing.  

That explains all the screaming.  

“Do you have a ten — ”

“I have a tent, Bellamy, do I look stupid?  Everybody’s fine; a few people got some minor burns, so we moved back the front line about two hundred yards and it kind of stopped coming.  Now Heda’s pissed though, because the whole plan is that we’re supposed to infiltrate this hellhole, but it’s a little hard to infiltrate it if we _can’t get anywhere near it.”_ Bellamy rubs a hand over his face wearily.  

“Look, the fog should let up soon — ”

“That’s what I’m trying to _tell_ you: it’s not letting up,” Octavia cuts him off.  The radio crackles with feedback.  “It stops when we retreat, but then every time somebody tries moving forward it starts up again.  Not that you don’t have your own shit to deal with in there, but we could use some suggestions.”  The acid in Octavia’s tone nearly matches the fog.  Bellamy purses his lips, brow knitted in thought.  

“Maybe — ”

“Wait.”  It’s Monty who cuts in from behind the generator.  With the rest of the forty seven taken hostage in the dorms, he, Bellamy, Maya, and Jasper are stuck in the back corner of the storeroom where Maya led them.  They’ll be clear to move freely once the Mountain Men have been isolated on Level Five, but until Raven gets the turbines reversed, they’re stuck hiding.  “Octavia, you said you moved back two hundred yards and it stops, but that whenever you start to approach again the fog starts back up again?”

“That’s what I said, genius.”  Even through the buzzing of the radio static, Bellamy can practically hear her rolling her eyes.  Monty, though, doesn’t look perturbed; instead, he’s frowning at the generator in concentration.  When he doesn’t immediately respond, the radio crackles again.  “Any time would be great, Monty — Murphy’s arm got burned, and I don’t love the little sewer rat, but he can shoot a gun and we have, like, three people who can do that, so it would be really great if we could figure out a way to get him inside without him getting eaten by acid.  Just, you know.  If it’s convenient.”  

“Octavia — ” Bellamy starts to rumble.

“No, no, wait.”  Jasper’s flapping his arms at him to be quiet.  “This is actually a problem we can solve.”  Still squinting at the floor, Monty nods.

“If the fog reacts to the army’s movements, it obviously isn’t a natural phenomenon,” he reasons.  “That means we have two options.”  He stops there, still squinting.  Bellamy waits.  When a few seconds tick by without a sign that Monty is going to continue, he raises his eyebrows.

“Uh, guys.  Still waiting.”  

“Neutralizer,” Jasper supplies evenly from his perch before he can ask.  “If we don’t want to attract attention to the army, we need to find the tanks where they keep the fog and neutralize the acid.  They’ll still deploy it, but it won’t be weaponized, so the army can just walk right through it.”

“That sounds like it could take a while.”  Bellamy can only imagine the time, energy, and thought that are going to be involved with finding and neutralizing what is likely to be a massive room filled with massive tanks of acid fog.  If they had all the time in the world, stealth would be the ideal move, but every minute they waste is precious.  There’s no telling how many of the forty seven have been killed for bone marrow since they were taken captive.  “What’s the other option?”  Jasper grins.  
“Oh, we can just blow it up,” he says easily.  “But it won’t be pretty, and it’ll definitely let the Mountain Men know what we’re up to.”  

“They already know we’re here,” Octavia points out through a wave of static.  “And if they see us walking through some neutralized acid fog and not falling back, they’re going to know what we’re up to anyway.  Somebody take a gun and go blow up the damn acid tanks.”  Jasper nods and slips off the edge of the table.

“Roger that.  I’m on it.”    

“Hold up.”  Bellamy throws an arm out and catches him in the chest.  “You can’t go out there — there are guards patrolling everywhere, and even if you don’t get caught, you don’t know where to find those tanks.”  

“I can find them.”  Their eyes fall on Maya, who has so far remained silent, watching them from Jasper’s side with her face pinched with anxiety.  “They’d have to be in a big maintenance room, and there are only three of those.  I’ve been in two, so it has to be the one at the other end of Level Six.  I can take you there.”  

“Actually, that’s perfect,” Octavia replies.  “We’ll need someone to let the battalion in through the reaper tunnel door once we’ve isolated Level Five.”  Jasper nods.

“I can do that,” he confirms.  “But what about Maya?  Once Raven reverses the turbines she won’t be safe on any of the other levels, and they’ll shoot her if they see her on Level Five.”  

“There are hazmat suit closets on every floor,” is Maya’s immediate reply.  “There won’t be a lot of oxygen tanks, but there should be enough to last until the fight is over and it’s safe for me to be there.”  Bellamy grunts the affirmative.

“Sounds good.  O?  Can you put me through to Clarke?”  He’s perfectly prepared to do what needs to be done, but he doesn’t like the idea of going into this without a clear plan. Octavia, for all her strategic capabilities, has a fairly simple role.  She’ll come in with swords flying, while Clarke is more inclined to know the end goal.

Octavia snickers.

“Yeah, have fun talking to Miss Heatbrain here,” she snorts.  “Enjoy.  Have at it, Skaiheda.  Later, Bell.”

“I told you not to call me that!”  Clarke’s protest rings out through the radio.  “And I don’t have _heatbrain,_ thank you very much.”  There’s no time to wonder what they might be referring to; they’re running low on time as it is.  Through the radio, Bellamy can hear someone chuckle — it sounds like Anya.  

“What’s the plan, Princess?”  Never mind the fact that he hasn’t heard her voice in several days; they can have a tearful reunion once this is over.  Clarke doesn’t hesitate.

“Raven went up to the dam with Callum; once she reverses the turbines, Monty will isolate Level Five.  The rest of us are splitting up as soon as the acid fog is down,” she rattles off, and it sounds like she’s reciting a to-do list instead of going to war.   _Business as usual with Clarke Griffin,_ Bellamy thinks.  “Half are going through the reaper tunnels, and the rest of us are going to wait for Raven to short out the power and open the main door.  Meantime, you’ll be releasing everyone in the harvest chamber; Jasper will let the reaper tunnel group in, and we’ll take Level Five from all sides.  Surround them, kill Cage and the guards, rescue our people.  That’s the plan.”  Bellamy breathes in.  

“Sounds pretty straightforward.”  

If they pull it off, he’s going to start believing in miracles.  

* * *

Raven’s leg is killing her.

Fortunately, the dam isn’t that far from the place where the army is gathered, but with all the running from certain death that they’ve been doing this morning, she’s already hurting.  Callum hasn’t explicitly offered to carry her, but for the last part of their hike he’s been shooting her looks that she knows mean he wants to.  Clearly, her affliction is visible no matter how hard she tries to hide it.  It’s harder now because she’s also hit her allotment of painkillers.  Rationing isn’t as strict on the ground as it was on the Ark, but with their status among the clans still pending until Mount Weather falls, the Skaikru don’t have easy access to Trikru resources like medicine.  Abby and Jackson have done what they can for her — Abby in particular has been shockingly accommodating — but her designation plays an inescapable role in it, too.  Valuable mechanic or not, Raven is an Omega, and her allotted portion of every resource is resultantly smaller. 

It doesn’t appear to be a problem among the grounders.

To be honest, it has Raven a little on-edge.  These people have so far been so unexpectedly solicitous that she can’t help being suspicious.  Wherever she goes, Raven has been offered food first, given a seat first, and addressed with courtesy.  Some are more attentive than others, but none of the grounders have so far failed to treat her kindly.  Even Roan, the bull-headed Alpha ambassador to Azgeda, has been polite, if a bit curt. 

Luna, though, is the real mystery.  She’s the one who woke Raven during the night, tugging her confused from her bed to drag her in the direction of the springs.  Nearly everyone else had fled by then, which to Raven implied that Luna was searching for her.  The missile hit before they could make it to the springs, and they were forced to take cover in a stable.  They were thrown to the ground, and when Raven came to, it was to find Luna curled over her, shielding her from the worst of the blast.  

This morning, perhaps sensing her hunger after they were deprived of breakfast, Luna sent her off with a bag of food, a canteen of hot tea, and a heavy coat that she’s pretty sure the Floukru leader shed to give to her.  Never mind the fact that the day is already growing warmer.  In her weeks on the ground, Raven has found the lack of a thermostat to be disconcerting.  The Ark was the same temperature every day, and having to regulate her own body temperature on the ground takes more energy than she expected.  Not being fed well has added to her difficulty staying warm.  Raven didn’t consider before that her discomfort might be obvious, and more importantly, that someone might care enough to do something about it.

The three of them, she and Clarke and Murphy, have been treated well by the grounders ever since the treaty was forged.  She knows that Clarke has a significant excuse, but Raven fails to understand why she and Murphy, of all people, are being treated like high-class citizens.  Murphy is taking what he can get without questioning it, as usual, but Raven is bewildered.  She can see the theoretical gain if the Skaikru were to feed their Omegas better; healthier Omegas bear healthier pups.  And yet Luna has assured her that pups aren’t the impetus for treating the sky Omegas well.  She doesn’t particularly see any sign of it in Anya or Lexa, either, which is beginning to lead her to reluctantly believe their assurances.  The only apparent downside Raven can see is that Clarke is now distracted by a cocktail of raging hormones.

Frankly, Clarke’s heat is distracting Raven, too.  Omegas are quick to form bonds with one another, often regardless of any reason for a true friendship, and are also quick to share in one another’s experiences and sense each other’s emotions.  In the days at the drop ship before Mount Weather attacked, Clarke and Raven and some of the others turned to one another for comfort.  They didn’t know, then, that that’s why there were doing it, but Raven understands now why they gravitated towards each other.  Often, she and Clarke and Harper shared a tent, sleeping in a tangled pile to share warmth and the desperately needed affection that none of them quite understood.  

Having forged empathetic bonds with her sister Omegas, Raven is easily tuned into them.  Clarke’s heat is bothering her.  She can feel Clarke’s agitation, and as much as they’re all focused on the mountain, she almost wants to take a breather for Clarke to get through her heat before they proceed.  She isn’t even angry at Clarke anymore; it’s hard to be when she knows, as an Omega, exactly why her friend did what she did.  As long as Clarke continues feeling needy and distressed, Raven is going to be unsettled.  It’s distracting; even as she considers how best to reverse the dam turbines, she itches to return to where the army is gathered and hug Clarke and nose into her neck until she calms down.  

But, alas, there’s no time.  Both of them will just have to suffer through it.  Beside, Harper’s in that mountain, along with ten others who are all suffering.  After Raven the mechanic helps rescue them, Raven the Omega can comfort them all.

The best part is that she gets to make things go boom.

* * *

The radio call comes directly after she’s done talking with Bellamy, which really should clue Clarke in to the fact that the lines are being tapped.  She hasn’t even had a moment to turn and relay the news to Lexa when the radio is fuzzing to life again.  This time, whoever’s on the other end is addressing her directly.

 _“Clarke Griffin.”_  The static is too heavy for her to be able to determine the speaker, but Clarke knows instinctively that it’s not one of the Skaikru.  The accent is too harsh, too clipped with Old World consonants to belong to someone born among twelve nations in the sky.   _“Clarke Griffin, I know you are listening.  I request your immediate response.”_ It’s loud enough even with the static to be heard by those nearest to her, Lexa, Anya, and Indra among them.  Everyone within range turns at the sound.  

Cold fingers find the button.

“Who is this.”  She’s careful not to phrase it so delicately that it can be read as a mere question.  Days in the presence of Heda have infused a little ice into Clarke’s voice when dealing with political entities, and she’s not unwilling to use it.  The image of Tondisi in flames burns bright in the back of her eyes.  She can almost feel Myka’s weight slung across her chest.  

“This is Cage Wallace speaking.  If she’s nearby, I would like to speak with your Commander.”  There’s a slickness to it that makes Clarke shiver inwardly in disgust.  She thinks of Lexa’s ability to command an entire village’s respect merely by walking into a room, and suddenly it strikes her that in a world with three groups of survivors, those on the ground alone have evolved.  The Ark and the mountain, as isolated as they are, remain unchanged from the people who a hundred years ago set the world on fire.  

“I am here.”  Lexa’s voice is flat; Clarke holds the button down for her after a moment of fumbling, understanding Heda’s reluctance to handle the Skaikru technology.  She releases it at the sight of Lexa’s signal, because Heda is her leader, whatever Abby and Dante Wallace might believe.  

“Commander of the Twelve Clans, I offer you my terms,” Cage tells her.  Around them, all have fallen silent and stand motionless, listening.  In the sunlight, the sweep of Lexa’s sash glows blood red.  “I understand there are some people in this mountain who belong to you.  One-hundred and eighty-nine of them, the last time we counted.”  He pauses.  “I will release them all, right now, into your waiting arms.  In return, you will walk away from here, leaving the people of the Ark with me, and we will never darken the doorsteps of your villages again.”  

Clarke’s finger slips from the radio, and utter silence falls.

All around, the eyes of the army are on them.  There is complete stillness, no movement save the rise and fall of Heda’s chest with her even breaths.  Clarke’s heartbeat hammers through her  body.  Lexa’s face is blank, unreadable, and for a horrifying moment, Clarke thinks that she might agree.  

“Heda.”  When Anya speaks, the entire army shifts its attention to her like a wave rising to meet a rocky shore.  Anya’s voice trembles microscopically, but her shoulders are straight and proud at Clarke’s side.  “You know that as your general, I am bound to your command.  With all due respect, if you accept these terms, I challenge your suitability as Commander of the Kongeda.”  

The silence continues, but it is of an entirely different sort.  People’s eyes are wide, their scents abruptly startled and confused.  Around them, Clarke sees Lincoln shoot Indra a worried glance.  

Lexa’s expression is unchanging.  She gazes at Anya with no display of outward emotion, her head tilted slightly to one side, eyes unreadable.  A drawing at the corners of her lips suggests she is considering.  

Then abruptly, she smiles, not broadly but grimly, and gestures for Clarke to press the button on the radio to reply.  Clarke obeys with shaking hands.  

“I have a better idea,” she says when the green light announces that she can be heard.  She leans in a little so that there will be no mistaking her words.  “We clans have a saying that we like to use — _jus drein jus daun:_ blood must have blood.  For fifty-six summers, you have bled my people dry.  I think it’s time we return the favor.”

* * *

Clarke really has very little idea what she’s doing.

She’s not quite sure why anyone is asking her opinion here.  To be fair, she’s not in charge: Lexa is.  Clarke isn’t second in command, or even third, Anya and Indra naturally taking those positions.  Even then, there’s a whole host of other people who have more expertise, natural ability, and a desire to do the job.  

And yet, somehow, everyone is looking at Clarke.  Maybe it’s because she’s holding the radio.  

“So.”  She clears her throat.  With Lexa’s proclamation, she’s choosing to ignore that Cage ever even spoke.  The weight of everyone’s eyes on her is heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the pit that’s settled like lead in her stomach — or, come to think of it, Anya’s hand on her hip.  Somehow in a moment when they might be moments away from death, a couple of fingertips are enough to drive Clarke completely off the rails.  In her defense, it’s a little hard to focus when all she can think of doing is dragging Anya into one of the acid fog tents and having her way with her.  

She’s starting to see why Omegas have a reputation for being heat-driven.

“They’re going to stop the acid fog for us,” she informs Lexa.  She raises her voice so that everyone gathered around can hear.  “Raven will radio Monty when she’s reversed the turbines, and he’ll let us know when the Maunon are isolated on Level Five.  Until the fog is down, though, there’s not much we can do.”  Part of her expects a little impatient backlash, especially considering the kind of morning they’ve all had, but there’s relatively little muttering.  Lexa only nods sharply.

“Good,” she barks out.  “In the meantime, we’ll assign battalions.  Klark, you will come with me and lead Jean, Linkin, and everyone to the left of the white rock — ” she gestures to half of the assembled army “ — into the mountain through the main door.  Onya, you will lead the rest of our people through the _ripa_ tunnels with Indra and Okteivia.  Take Murfi with you.  One radio per team; Okteivia, you take one.  Klark, you are in charge of the other.”  Beside her, Clarke can feel Anya’s stress magnify.  She knows the Alpha is dreading returning to the reaper tunnels, but Lexa has chosen her because she is familiar with them.  Clarke has been there too, obviously, but Anya found the way out, not Clarke.  Besides, she admittedly wasn’t paying very close attention to all the twists and turns when trying to outrun the Maunon.  

The entrance to the reaper tunnels is just inside the range of the acid fog, close enough that the group headed in that direction should have plenty of time to find shelter in the tunnels before the fog reaches them.  It’s not clear how long it will take Jasper and Maya to dismantle the fog machine, but the distance to travel between here and the main door is much shorter than the length of the reaper tunnels, so it’s best to allow those going below ground a head start.  Accordingly, at Lexa’s order, the battalion sets to organizing itself to be ready to dash for the tunnel entrance.  

 _“Ste klir.”_  Clarke breathes it into Anya’s hair when the Alpha gathers her tightly in her arms.  Nearby, she can see Lincoln and Octavia exchanging a rather public goodbye. There are no tears, but she can hear Anya making a faint whining noise of protest in the back of her throat.  Whether it’s at leaving Clarke or the thought of going back into the mountain is unclear, but Clarke detects distress edging at her scent.  A flurry of unwanted emotions rises in her chest and beats like wings in her throat.  

“And you, _skaifaya,”_ Anya murmurs.  “Do not be upset; when we next see each other, the mountain will have fallen, and our people will know peace.”  Her voice quavers a little with hope and anxiety.  Clarke steps back, the discomfort at the strain in her Alpha’s voice making her edgy.  She keeps her eyes down, feeling an instinctive tug to keep her gaze low as an odd feeling tingles the back of her neck — not subservience, perhaps, but a more willing submission.  It’s one of the many new feelings she’s experienced since reaching the ground that seems to defy words.  All she knows is that Anya, who is somehow so very precious to her, is deserving of such an offering.  

Clarke pulls at Anya’s armor, straightening it, her hands fluttering and fussing over the Alpha’s clothes.  She’s experiencing a sudden urge to stand in front of Anya and press their bodies together so that no one dares aim a weapon at her.  She wants to oil the heavy armor and make sure the fastenings are tight; polish and sharpen the sword that hangs at the Alpha’s hip.  A quick flash comes to her, hardly more than a glimpse, of what their future might be, Clarke sending Anya off to battle from the comfort of their own home.

Quickly, she fixes Anya’s braids, tucking them back behind her ears tenderly.  The braids are silky between her fingers despite some lingering soot, and she’s brought back to the feeling of warm water cradling her hips, breath hot between them, skin tingling with the newness of the air and a brighter knowingness that Clarke is almost sure is love.  

“Before you go . . .”  She fumbles with the wrist fastenings of her coat.  The tin lining it shines in the early morning sun, warm with it, that undefinable color of sunlight.  Her fingers close over leather and metal, gripping Anya’s wrist to press it into her hand.  “I heard that it’s a Trikru tradition to present warriors with a carved token of good luck before battle.  There was no time to carve anything, and I’m pretty sure I would have carved myself by accident — and you’re the woodcarver, so whatever I came up with definitely would have been embarrassing — so I wanted you to have this.  It was my father’s,” she elaborates as Anya stares down at the watch in her hand.  “I know time is followed differently here, so it’s absolutely no use to either of us, but . . . it’s all I have left of him.  He dreamed of seeing the ground and living a life on Earth, and he knew I dreamed of a home here, too.  And since I’ve finally found it, he would know why I want to protect it with everything I have.”  The look that passes between them holds all the words Clarke isn’t saying; that she knows that the tradition is a gift exchanged between loved ones, that _Anya_ is her home.  That Jake Griffin would be proud to know the woman his daughter loves.  

And so, knowing all the things that go unspoken, Anya doesn’t undermine the gesture with words.  Quietly, she holds her arm out and watches with turbulent eyes while Clarke fastens the watch around her wrist.  Then, when it is done, she looks from the watch to Clarke and tugs her into a fierce kiss so deep it sets Clarke’s blood ablaze.

They break apart only when Lexa’s whistle signals for the group’s departure.  With a reluctant look, Anya smoothes her hands over Clarke’s shoulders.  Her fingers come up to trace the soft lines of her jaw, her cheekbones; the tiny marks at the corners of her eyes.  There is an expression of intense focus upon her face, almost furious, as though she’s intently memorizing every part of Clarke, treasuring it, locking it away somewhere special only she can see.  There’s something nearly ferocious in her gaze when she looks at Clarke, desperate and possessive and fearful and adoring, and all at once, Clarke understands that she will defend this Alpha with everything she has.  

She will do anything for this woman who looks at her with eyes so bright.  

“Go,” she tells her, “and when we meet again, may we know nothing but peace.”  She surges upward onto her toes and presses another kiss to Anya’s lips; a hand brushes down her back, and then Anya is gone in the crowd surging toward the tunnel entrance.

At Clarke’s side, Jean watches them go.  

“Not easy letting her go, is it?” he says knowingly.  Watching the battalion’s retreating backs disappear into the tunnel as the fog hits, Clarke hardens her stance.

“They will not take her from me,” she says flatly.  “I won’t allow it.  They will not harm any of my people again, Trikru or Skaikru, or anyone else.”  Jean hums.  Already, the fog is beginning to recede.  Jasper and Maya must have destroyed the machine.  

“You would move mountains for them.”  It’s an acknowledgment that scarcely needs to be spoken aloud, but Clarke understands how incredible it is.  In two weeks, unimaginable changes have taken place, and when there is time later, they will warrant wonder.  

Clarke gives him a small smile.

“That’s the plan.”  The radio crackles, and Bellamy’s voice breaks through.  

“The acid fog is down and the turbines are reversed.  Give that army the war they’re looking for.”

* * *

Despite his protests that he’d rather bring up the rear, Murphy is corralled through the tunnels at the head of the charge under Octavia’s assertion that she’d rather keep an eye on him.  He’s pretty sure they’re all aware of what he did on the ridge this morning in the dark, but it doesn’t seem to have earned him many points.  It has afforded him a grudging lack of scathing looks, but that’s about all.  Privately, he wonders if they’re waiting to see if they need someone to sacrifice to the mountain during a trade.  

He’s thought — not long and hard, but fleetingly — about what life will be like after this nonsense is over.  Whatever it is, he knows it won’t involve going back to Camp Jaha. The people of the Ark have never seen fit even to give him the time of day.  He sees no reason that that should change.  

As it currently stands, he’s torn.  It’s unclear as yet which scenario holds the best chance of survival.  Under any other circumstances, running would be by far his best option. Murphy wouldn’t even hesitate except that, by all indicators, what the grounders are offering might boast better odds.  He’s overheard the negotiations; he knows what Luna and her people are offering.  He doesn’t trust them, not as far as he can throw them — which with his current state of health isn’t very far — but he’s not going to pretend that a free place to live and a square meal sound particularly disagreeable.  There will be a price to pay for it, he knows; he’s not stupid.  Still, it might be worth it.  

Whatever happens in this godforsaken mountain will dictate what comes next.   

By now, under Anya’s guidance, the army has reached the exterior door.  The reaper tunnels are dark and gloomy, and their footsteps echo off the wet walls.  Even Murphy is disconcerted.  The grounders, he can tell, are less comfortable underground than he is.  At least Murphy grew up on the Ark, surrounded by walls and few windows.  He can’t imagine what it must be like for someone who grew up in the open air.  

“You guys are early,” Jasper whispers when he opens the door in response to Anya’s knock.  “Bellamy said give it ten minutes after Raven reversed the turbines.”  Octavia shrugs, holding up the radio.

“No reception,” she explains.  “These tunnels have too much interference.”  

“Are we able to come in yet or not?”  Indra isn’t messing about with pleasantries.  No doubt she dislikes the cold dampness of the tunnels just as much as the rest of them.  

Jasper throws a glance over his shoulder.  His companion, a girl in a blue hazmat suit, lifts a shoulder at him in response.

“They’ve gotten almost everyone to Level Five by now,” he replies, “but there are a few stragglers.  Maya says they were able to cure a couple of guards, and they’re using them to do a sweep and make sure that nobody got left behind.  We think a few are patrolling, too.  There aren’t that many, but we’ll have to be careful.”  

Behind Murphy, a burly warrior cracks his knuckles threateningly.

“It is the Maunon who will have to be careful,” he hisses.  “Fayagons cannot beat Heda’s army.  They are foolish to attempt it.”  Maya looks disconcerted, but Jasper only nods.  

“Well, if you feel that way about it . . . come on in.  We’re losing more people by the minute.  Fox and Peter are already dead.”  Despite himself, Murphy’s stomach gives an unpleasant lurch.  As they passed the carts earlier beneath the harvest chamber trash chute, he did his best not to look.  He isn’t _friends_ with any of the Hundred, but it doesn’t mean he wants to see them drained of bone marrow.  

“Then we will risk the guards,” Anya declares.  “Let us in.”

“Hold on,” Jasper stops them as they begin to step forward.  “Maya needs a new oxygen tank.  She can’t stay on this level without one, and it’s too dangerous for her to go up to Level Five alone.  We need someone to take her through the trash chute and stand guard while she finds one and exchanges it.”  

“Murphy will take her,” Octavia says flatly.  “Less to lose if he gets shot.”  Murphy scrunches up his nose.  Normally, he thinks, Octavia would be a little more solicitous considering he’s an Omega.  Apparently when you’re John Murphy normal codes of moral behavior don’t apply.

He can’t say he really blames her.  

“Fine,” he grumbles.  “But you’re giving me a gun.”  Wordlessly, Jasper unbuckles the pistol from his own hip and hands it over.  Then he steps aside, and the grounders begin to filter through the door.

Octavia shoots Murphy a nasty look as she brushes past.

“Try not to shoot anyone we like,” she hisses scathingly.  Murphy cocks the gun and smirks.  

“If I do, I’ll be sure to aim for the head.” 

* * *

When Bellamy re-enters the harvest chamber, it’s with reluctance sitting like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach.

It’s only been a few days since he was last in here; when he got captured, they drained him once before he was able to escape.  He didn’t like to do it, not seeing the way that the grounders in the neighboring cages watched with a mixture of fury and despair as he darted out of the room.  Still, he had to; for himself, for the Skaikru, and for them.  He hates being back in here, hates smelling the blood lingering under the stench of bleach and sweat and sickness.  The smell of helplessness and fear is overpowering, and the traces of hurt Omega at the edges of it make him sick to his stomach. 

“You came back.”  Echo can’t disguise her shock at the sight of him standing before her cage.  The Azgedan Omega has been bled again, he can tell.  Her scent is weaker, more tinged with pain and hopelessness.  The only thing he can’t smell on her is fear.  

“I told you I would come back for you, didn’t I?”  Bellamy can’t keep his voice above a murmur, and it comes out almost like a coo.  He sees her startle a little at that.  She doesn’t have enough strength to show much surprise, but a single angular eyebrow lifts weakly.  She’s smelling the Alpha pheromones rushing off him, and he can see that she’s not stupid.  He knows he’s treating her more kindly than simple human decency demands.  He chooses to ignore it for now, focusing instead on the task at hand.  

“I’m going to let you out, and then I need you to help me release everyone else and organize anyone who can stand to fight,” he tells her, and sees her eyebrow tick upward even more.  “Your Heda has brought her army here, and we’re going to take this mountain down, but we can’t do it without the help of everyone in this room.  Will they fight?”  He knows that she’s from Azgeda, and judging by the ritual scarring on the faces of so many in here, he thinks a lot of the other prisoners might be as well.  Her eyes, he notices, are pretty, or would be if they weren’t so clouded with pain.  They’re amber-colored, somehow flat, but expressive.  Her cheekbones are angular, her face fine-boned and strong.  

She’s distractingly, astonishingly gorgeous.

“They will if I tell them to.”  She lifts her chin pridefully, and he sees that he was right in his assumptions.  Whoever she is, whatever she is, something tells him that she can command a crowd even better than he can, albeit differently.  “But you will have to let me out.”  

“Right, shit, sorry.”  Cursing, Bellamy fumbles with the keys until he finds the right one.  The padlock grinds a bit with age, but it opens easily, and a moment later, he’s tugging the cage door open.  Hers is a level above the floor, and seeing how her body is trembling, he grasps her instinctively as he eases her to the ground.  

They both startle a little when their bodies touch.  Her skin is cold and clammy, grimy with sweat and her own blood.  She’s unsteady on her feet, and it takes every ounce of effort Bellamy has not to pull her into his arms.  She’s looking at him oddly, regarding him with an intense, unreadable expression as he steps back and clears his throat. Upright, they’re the same height.  He’s not sure why he was expecting her to be taller than he is.

“Good,” he says definitively, and fumbles a key off the ring.  “Let’s wreak some havoc.”  

* * *

The Mount Weather guard crashes to the floor with Murphy on top of him, one hand over his mouth to muffle his shout of alarm.  There’s a brief scuffle, in which they both take a few hard blows to the ribs and jaw from each other’s elbows, before Murphy finally comes to his senses and whacks the man across the head with the butt of his gun.  He’d rather just shoot him, but it’ll make too much noise, and it’s risky for them to be in plain sight as it is.  There aren’t many guards who have been cured, but this is the second one they’ve seen already, and unfortunately, conflict wasn’t avoidable.  They were creeping along the hallway when he stepped out from behind a cabinet, and he was firing at Maya before either of them had a chance to react.  If Murphy hadn’t knocked him down, one of them would probably be dead.

This is the second time today that Murphy has saved someone from a bullet.  He’s pretty sure that’s his life’s quota met, right there.  

“Right,” he says as he clambers to his feet.  “You’re going up alone.  This has been fun and all, but you’re in more danger with me up there than down here.  When this guy doesn’t check in the next time his buddy radios, somebody’s going to come looking for him, and they’ll realize what you’re up to and go looking for you upstairs,” he explains gruffly when Maya opens her mouth to protest.  “I’ll stay here and shoot the bastard when he shows up, and it’ll buy you a little more time.”  Maya closes her mouth.  She regards him for a moment through narrowed eyes.

Then she nods.

“Thank you.  I know you don’t have to help me, and you probably don’t want to, so thank you for believing me when I say I’m on your side.”  She offers it along with a squeeze of his shoulder when she steps past him toward the trash chute.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.  Just don’t get shot.”  She tosses an indecipherable look over her shoulder at him, and then she’s crawling into the trash chute, the door banging shut behind her.  Letting out a relieved huff, Murphy turns to go, intent on waiting out the storm in a corner somewhere.  He’ll probably wait until it’s over, he thinks, and then head off on his own someplace.  Maybe he’ll stick around to hear the results of negotiations after the mountain falls, but really, his best bet is to get a head start.  

He’s hardly taken three steps when a figure comes flying at him from the store closet.

_“Die, Maunon filth!”_

_“Jesus Christ!”_  Murphy hits the floor with a crunch that makes his back throb.  Immediately, when he hits the tile, he curls over as much as he can with the weight on top of him.  Seventeen years on the Ark at least taught him something about self-preservation.  Right now, there are fists flying at his face, and the best he can do is avoid them rather than fight back, pinned as he is with one arm twisted beneath him and a knee digging into his sternum.  The weight on him is lighter than Pike and the Collins kid, but it wrenches his memory back to the Ark all the same.  

 _“Die, ripa!”_  

“Holy shit, I’m not an effing Mountain Man, get _off!”_ he yells into the arm currently smashing his face.  He tastes sterile cleaner and blood, and gags a little.  The weight on him shifts.  A parting _thwack_ to his ear, and it scrambles off him, leaving Murphy to blink up in stupefaction at the small grounder woman who’s been beating the living shit out of him.

She’s not an Alpha, despite the fury of her fists; Murphy can smell that much beneath the stench of blood and bleach.  There’s a tattoo lining the left side of her face, and Murphy surprises himself with the thought that it actually looks pretty badass.  She’s plastered with the same mesh tape as the rest of the grounder prisoners, and her scent is bland and unassuming.  She’s a Beta, though the fiercest one he’s ever seen, a Beta with snapping eyes and gnashing teeth.

She glares as Murphy grunts and pushes himself up to his elbows; she keeps one fist raised and ready to strike.  The other hand, her left, swings at her side despite the fact that it’s the one she was landing the hardest blows with.  Glancing down, he sees immediately why she’s holding it oddly, angled away from him as much as possible.  The hand looks like it’s been melted and re-formed.  There are too many fingers; some are large and appear to be melded together while others are small and curled.  Judging by the purple bruising around her knuckles, one of them is broken.  

His eyes trail from it over the rest of her body, lingering unabashedly on her breasts in appreciation before he reaches her face.  When he meets her eyes, though they flash with fury, he detects a flicker of surprise.  

“If you’re not Maunon, what the hell are you?” she spits out when she’s recovered from whatever confusion she’s experiencing.  Rolling onto his side to push himself up, Murphy lets out another grunt.

“Skaikru,” he tells her, even though that doesn’t feel quite right.  The group he’s really closest to belonging to is the Hundred, but more than half of them are dead and the rest of them hate his guts, so he supposes it doesn’t matter what he specifies, anyway.  He assumes it’s sufficient explanation for who he is, but the Beta only narrows her eyes.  She doesn’t lower her fist.

“That’s not a clan.”  

“Not yet.”  Privately, Murphy doesn’t have high hopes for Skaikru as a member of the Coalition, but then again, he doesn’t really give a damn.  He’s out of here either way.  “We only dropped out of the sky two months ago, and Heda wasn’t exactly thrilled.  Give it a bit.”  Still not lowering her hand, the grounder glares at him suspiciously.

“You came from the _sky?”_  She sounds entirely incredulous, and for the first time, it occurs to Murphy that she probably has no idea.  He doesn’t know how long people are usually kept in here before they’re killed, but he assumed that it wasn’t long enough that she could have been captured before the drop ship landed.  

“Space station,” he explains shortly.  “How long have you been in here?”  She snorts at him derisively.

“I don’t _know.”_  Right, he realizes.  She wouldn’t.  To his surprise, though, her face lights up at the mention of the Ark.  “The ISS was still up there?”  Murphy blinks.

“Not really; it merged with eleven other stations after the bombs,” he tells her.  “How the hell do you know that?”  Her other hand has dropped back down by her side; she lets out a huff of annoyance.

“I _read,_ idiot,” she says with a contemptuous eye roll.  “It’s not hard.”  And with that, she’s walking over to the guard he knocked out.  She leans her hands on her knees and stares hard into the man’s face.  What she sees must not be promising, because she aims another kick at the man’s head for good measure before crouching down and beginning to strip him of his clothes.  Murphy stares in disbelief.

“What are you doing?”  It’s not like he cares, really, but this is weird, and somehow, she’s one of the friendlier people he’s talked to today.  Fuck him for being curious.  

The Beta shoots him a look that tells him she thinks he’s exactly as stupid as he’s acting.  

“Stealing clothes, what does it look like?  I’m not about to walk out of here looking like a whore at the nomadic trade mart,” she says with a frank sneer.  A few tugs and a belt buckle later, and she’s yanking the Mountain Man’s blue coveralls over her bony frame.  It’s baggy, but she cinches the belt tight and rolls the sleeves and tucks the pant legs into the too-big boots she pulls on and laces up with a grunt.  Murphy notices the movements of a pro with the eyes of one who’s familiar with making do.  

When the Beta straightens up, she gives him a nod and a weird, seven-fingered salute, and is heading off in the direction of the airlock staircase without uttering another word.  

He’s scrambling to his feet before she can make it to the stairs, before he himself can even register what he’s doing.  

“Wait, where are you going?” he calls after her.  She turns and quirks an eyebrow.  

“Running away, the hell does it look like?  Bye.”  Murphy considers.  

Then, with a shrug, he’s following. 

“Sounds like my kinda girl.”  

* * *

The only thing Clarke can think is that she expected it to be harder than this.

When the army gathered and Raven radioed to tell them that the power was shorted out, Clarke fully expected them to be shot at in the process of entering the mountain.  She wouldn’t have imagined that the Maunon would let them in without protest, especially not after Lexa refused Cage’s terms.  Letting the grounder army threaten war is one thing; letting them into the mountain that is their people’s only refuge is another.  With everyone save several cured guards isolated on Level Five, it doesn’t make sense to let the army in without a fight.  With the Maunon’s efforts so focused on the Skaikru in the dormitories, there’s no reason they should know about the other two battalions moving in on them from below.  Still, Clarke finds it extraordinarily hard to believe that Cage would let his guard down even for an instant when the fate of his people is on the line.  

And yet, all has so far gone disconcertingly smoothly.  

Level Zero is quiet.  With the backup generators flickering on after everyone has crowded through the door, the hallway is only half lit, oddly still and silent.  Once inside, the army stands gathered in a tight cluster just inside the door, throwing unnerved glances at the white walls and muttering to one another in Trigedasleng.  Clarke can’t pick up all of the words, but even without a translation, she gets the gist of it.  They hate this.  

She doesn’t blame them.  

It’s been almost two weeks, but stepping back in makes Clarke feel like she was here only yesterday.  It’s all the same, the same white walls and sterile feel and scent of antique, un-evolved people and artifacts stuck in time.  Clarke used to dream of the Old World in all its technological magic and cultural splendor, but if this is what it felt like, she no longer has any interest.  Everything is too manmade, too regulated and ambitious.  Even the Ark felt more in keeping with the times, and looking around, Clarke can see how the people of Old Earth came to destroy their own civilization.  There’s a distinct feeling of ill-will here, knowing what evil has taken place within these walls.  

Beside her, Lexa appears to feel the same.  

“Lead us through, Klark,” is her order, and even Heda’s voice fails to reach the corners of the tiled, vaulted ceiling.  “This is a tomb, and ought not to be touched by any but those we will bury within it.”  Clarke shudders a little at the imagery, and is reminded abruptly of the reality of what they have come here to do.

Punish the guilty, spare the innocent, they decided.  Except that after this, Clarke doesn’t know who’s innocent anymore.  

The image of Anya cramped bloody and broken in a room of cages sears her eyes, and she decides that they all, Skaikru and Maunon and grounders alike, are guilty by association.  

“The staircases are at the far end of each level,” she tells Lexa.  She realizes as she speaks that she’s unconsciously muttering out of the corner of her mouth.  “The landings are airlocks, but we shouldn’t run into anyone until we reach Level Five.  Once we hit the airlock on that floor, we can radio to Octavia and Bellamy.”  After that, it’s a sheer matter of numbers.  The Maunon have guns, but at Bellamy’s last count, there are only three-hundred and eighty-one residents of the mountain still alive, almost all of them civilians. Overpowering the few guards and politicians should be a simple matter of force.  

At Lexa’s command, the warriors spread out, and they begin the slow trek through the levels and down.  

The way is clear.  The entire bunker is deadly silent, the only light the dull emergency strip lights and the flickering of the _gonakru’s_ torches on the walls.  The army’s footsteps echo in the halls; no one speaks as they move through each level and descend the stairs at the end.  It’s only when they reach Level Three that anyone finally speaks.

“I’ll radio Bellamy from here,” Clarke says as they pause at the top of the staircase.  “They may have some guards patrolling the next level, so we should check in before we try to go any further.”  In the torchlight, Lexa’s expression is unwavering.  

“Do what you must,” is all she says, but Clarke can detect tension in her voice.  She might not show it, but Lexa hates being in here as much as any of the rest of them do.  

Shifting her weight off the ankle she twisted this morning on the ridge, Clarke brings the radio to her mouth.  

“Come in, Bellamy.”  She clicks it off and waits.  Several seconds pass with no response.  She presses the button again.  “Bellamy, come in.”  Another pause, longer this time, and she’s met with continued silence.  Clarke throws Lexa a glance; her finger digs into the button hard enough to ache.  “Bellamy, do you read me?   _Bellamy.  Octavia._  Anybody, come in.” Silence.  

Clarke’s stomach tightens with dread.  

“Perhaps there is no reception,” Lexa suggests tensely.  Biting her lip, Clarke shakes her head.  Dull panic is beginning to spread through her veins.  

“No, that’s not it.  There’s perfect reception everywhere in here; we’ve been talking to Bellamy for days.  If they could hear me, they would answer.”  Clarke is startled to feel hot tears forming at the back of her eyes.  Her breath is ragged; hurriedly, she brushes the back of her hand over her face.  Shaking her head to dispel the growing panic, she draws a steadying breath.  She turns to Lexa.  “There’s a control room with video monitors on Level Seven.  There’s no airlock, so nobody should be in there unless they’ve got someone they’ve cured guarding it.  I’ll go see if I can see the armies on the monitors.  I’ll be back as soon as I know what’s wrong.”  Lexa snags her by the wrist as she moves to leave.  

“I am coming with you.”  Clarke stares.

“What?  No.  Heda, the army — ”

“Can move to Level Four without me,” Lexa says smoothly.  Her face remains perfectly composed, but Clarke can see the flicker of worried determination behind her eyes.  “If you go alone, you may be captured.  At least with two of us there is a better chance.”  Clarke worries her lip, frowning.  When she doesn’t immediately respond, a pointed look from Heda reminds her of who is in charge.  Clarke sighs.

“All right,” she relents, “but they should be ready for gunfire.  Only people who have gotten the marrow transplant can be on Level Four, but I don’t know how many they’ve been able to cure by now.  It might be more than we’re expecting.”  A curt nod, and Lexa straightens up.  Clarke closes her eyes, clutching the radio tightly as Lexa calls out orders in Trigedasleng.  Lincoln steps in, concealing the concern for his mate that Clarke knows he feels, and takes command of the army.

Descending the stairs past Level Five is eerie.  There’s still no movement, nor are voices audible behind the airlock.  It’s strange to pass by through the silence knowing how many people are behind the double doors.  There’s a tense moment when a shout on Level Six makes them freeze, but the pounding footsteps are running in the opposite direction, and Clarke and Lexa melt out of the shadows in relief before they have a chance to become too anxious. 

Level Seven is deserted aside from the bodies of two guards, one of whom has a gunshot wound to the shoulder that looks like it was poorly aimed.  Clarke eyes them warily as they pass, but neither of the men move.  At the last minute, she pauses and tugs the gun from one man’s holster.  Edging past them, she squeezes in front of Lexa and moves toward the command center door with her back to the wall.  

Gripping the gun with both hands, she kicks the door open and braces herself in the doorway.

“Don’t shoot!”  The cry startles Clarke so much that she nearly pulls the trigger despite the warning.  Lexa shoves her out of the way and is in front of her with a sword held aloft before she can blink.  When the shock wears off, she focuses her eyes, and lowers the gun with a gasp of apology.

Monty is kneeling behind the main switchboard, hands above his head.  

“Monty, thank god,” Clarke breathes out, brushing past Lexa to help him to his feet.  Heda kicks the door shut behind them, sheathing her sword.  “What happened?  Why is no one answering?”  Monty’s face is pale.  

“I heard you on the radio, and I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t,” he explains as Clarke fusses to make sure he’s all right.  “They don’t know I’m down here; they’ve sent guards twice, but I shot the two outside the door the first time, and when they sent more to check on them I was able to hide.  I couldn’t risk giving away my position, but I figured that when no one responded you’d come down here anyway.  Clarke . . .”  Monty looks ill; his lips are white and lined with fear.  At the sight of it, Clarke feels the panic, briefly abated at the sight of him, rising again.

“Monty?  Where is everyone?  Did Bellamy — ”

“Clarke,” says Monty quietly again.  “Look.”  Unwillingly, with a feeling in her heart like when she saw the missile in the sky, Clarke brings her eyes up behind Monty to the monitors that display the hallways of Mount Weather on their screens.  Her heart drops as Lexa draws a sharp breath.  

On the floor of Level Six, the entirety of the imprisoned grounder army lies unconscious, Bellamy among them.  A low red haze lingers in the hallway.  A quick glance at Level Four tells Clarke that the second she and Lexa were through the stairwell airlock, the same knockout gas was deployed.  The second battalion, Lincoln and Jean included, is spread-eagled on the floor.  

The room spins; nausea roiling in her stomach, Clarke grasps for the edge of the desk. 

“They sent the knockout gas through the vents as soon as the group from the harvest chamber reached Level Six,” Monty tells her shakily.  “They were listening on the radio when Bellamy called in.  After that, I wanted to warn you, but they were patrolling this level, and I knew that they had our radio tapped.  I saw you all come in, and I knew they would probably do the same to you as soon as you got close.  When you got to Level Three, I figured they’d do it, but they didn’t.  I kept wondering why, and then you two left. The second you were gone, they sent the gas through.  They must have wanted you awake.” 

A thrill of horror goes through Clarke.  Bellamy, Jean, Lincoln . . . their whole entire army, their one and only advantage, is gone.  The knockout gas, Clarke knows, lasts at least fifteen minutes.  It’s more than enough time for Cage to make demands that without them, Clarke and Lexa can’t hope to meet.  By the time the army is revived, irreversible damage will have been done.  

Except —

“Where is everyone else?” Lexa demands harshly.  “The group we sent through the reaper mines, seventy-eight people.  Where are they?”  Heart beating fast, Clarke’s eyes flicker between the screens.  The army from the harvest chamber, Bellamy, the first battalion . . . Lexa’s right.  Anya, Indra, Octavia; none of them are among those lying unconscious on the ground.  Her pulse quickens.  

Monty swallows hard.  When he shakily raises an arm to point at the screens, Clarke follows his finger, and her stomach gives a hard, painful clench.  

The second battalion is in the dormitory.  

Anya, Indra, and Octavia, plus seventy-five others, lie unconscious on the floor.  Even from the distant security camera, Clarke can see that their arms and legs have been bound, some to each other, some alone.  Anya and Octavia are front and center, laid out at the feet of a chained up Miller and a girl Clarke is pretty sure is Harper.  Her heart gives another jolt as she notices the two figures entering the room flanked by Mount Weather guards: Raven and Callum, awake and alert, being dragged by their chains to the wall.  

“They took them first.”  Monty’s voice is shaking harder than ever.  “They got them in the stairwell — I think they threw gas canisters out of the airlocks.  They left the others, but they took them.  I think — Clarke, I think they want to talk to you.”

As if on cue, the radio at Clarke’s hip crackles to life.  

“Clarke Griffin.”  Clarke watches on the screen as Cage Wallace steps into view at the dormitory door.  “I believe we have something that belongs to you.”  

* * *

“Heda,” Clarke says quietly, not tearing her eyes from the screen.  “There’s a quarantine ward on Level Three.  Cage’s father is there.  Would you bring him to me?”  She keeps her request light, but she knows the depth of what she’s asking.  For one to command Heda is a death sentence; it is something that even Anya wouldn’t dare to do.

Lexa, wise as she is, doesn’t even nod.

“Give me four minutes,” she says tersely, and then she is gone.  In the rush of cold air that marks her absence, Clarke plays with the cuffs of her coat sleeves.  The metal clicks quietly in the hum of the computers.  She doesn’t remove her gaze from the screen where Cage stares directly into the security camera.  

“Monty,” Clarke says.  “I’m going to pick up the radio, and when I do, I need you to do everything you can to see if there’s a way to irradiate the dormitory without doing harm to the rest of the level.  Can you do that?”  Monty’s lips purse; his forehead is pinched.

“I can try,” he says after a moment.  He sits down in the chair at the main switchboard, and Clarke clicks the radio on.  

“Cage.”  

“Miss Griffin.  I assume by now you know your situation.”  His voice is still greasy, still snakelike.  Clarke bites back a shudder.  When she speaks, her words come out colder than Heda’s.

“I can see.”  She has three minutes and thirty-six seconds to stall before playing her only remaining card.  She can only hope that it will be enough leverage to sway Cage.  Even as she thinks it, an awful lurch in her heart tells her that it won’t be enough.  The Maunon have far too much to lose.  They have _everything_ to lose, which is why Clarke is already afraid of what she will have to do.  

Behind her, Monty’s fingers tap frantically across the keys.

“Then you know that your three armies are lost to you,” Cage continues in his oily, crooning voice.  “You have, I’m guessing, the Commander and the Beta Monty with you, considering they’re the only ones who aren’t accounted for.  That leaves you, I’m afraid, with not many weapons in your arsenal.”  Clarke has to physically restrain herself from making a snide comment about what sort of weapons, exactly, are in her arsenal.  Now is not the moment to act like an Alpha in a pissing contest.  Cage may be a Beta, but he’s one of the worst-mannered and worst-tempered she’s ever seen.  

“My armies will wake up in nine minutes,” she says evenly.  “I hardly think you’ve done your worst.”  It’s probably not the best idea to provoke him like this, but Clarke finds she can’t stop herself.  This man, this godforsaken mountain, has brought out the ugliest part of her that she never wished to see.  It’s the snarling, vicious, brutal Omega that will do unforgivable things to defend its territory, and right now, Cage is encroaching on it.  She can’t help showing a little teeth.

“Your armies will never wake up,” Cage tells her easily, and yes; this is the hidden clause Clarke feared.  In all of their battle planning, she knew they had to be missing something.  They forgot the gas, of course, but somehow despite their meticulous planning, Cage continues to be one step ahead.  “We have lethal amounts of chlorine gas ready to deploy into the vents on Levels Six and Four.  We will be dosing them as they begin to wake up.  Those we brought here will be drained of their bone marrow, and it will give our people life.”  Clarke draws a breath.

“We’ll donate it, the bone marrow,” she tells him quickly.  It’s been their plan all along, after all, though plans are quickly falling apart.  “We’ll volunteer, and then all of this can end; your people can live, and mine can go free.”  Cage is shaking her head before she even finishes speaking.

“Donations don’t give enough,” he negates smoothly.  “In order to have enough resistance to the radiation, we need to take it all.  And don’t think that I believe for a moment that your Commander and her armies will let my people live if I set them free.”  Clarke is growing desperate.

“But our people can get along, we can coexist!” she protests, feeling her helplessness begin to overwhelm her.  “Jasper and Maya — ”

“Have gotten themselves trapped in the dining room,” Cage finishes for her.  “They were apprehended while trying to find you to warn you about the knockout gas; you’ll see them at the upper left corner of the screen.”  With a horrible jolt in her heart, Clarke’s eyes flicker upward, and nausea rises into her throat to see Jasper and Maya cornered in the dining room, armed guards closing in from every side.  

“There is an easy way out of this, Miss Griffin.”  Clarke wishes that he would stop calling her that.  It feels patronizing, like he’s sweet-talking her.  The people that have called her Miss Griffin have only ever been people who want something from her.  Her mind flashes to Pike’s face as he called to Jake to pick her up from class, and she feels an icy stab of hatred in her heart.  “As I’m sure you are aware, your Commander turned down my offer to her earlier.  Bold, perhaps; I can admire that, but it was foolish.”  She can see his dark, beady eyes focused on the camera, his suave features a brilliant show of confidence and persuasion.  “But perhaps you are a wiser leader.”  Monty’s fingers stop tapping; Clarke checks the clock.  One minute and forty-eight seconds.  

“I don’t think so.”  Cage laughs.  

“Maybe not; you’re an Omega, after all.  Valuable, but unsuited for leadership.”  Clarke’s blood boils.  Perhaps Cage is right, but he says it as though it’s something disdainful. Clarke doesn’t enjoy leadership, but in a world in which they have been faced with enemies from all sides, her protectiveness has made her the kind of leader her people need. Even if she isn’t built for it, which she _isn’t,_ he doesn’t have to look upon it as something to be ashamed of.  Clarke knows her strengths, knows her capabilities; it takes all types of people to make a world.  She is proud of where her designation fits in it.  The very thing that made her ashamed on the Ark, in the mountain, is the thing she has found the most honor in on the ground.  

“Make your point.”  She doesn’t make any effort to keep the acerbic bite out of her tone; Cage lost the privilege of pleasantries long ago.  

One minute twenty-one.  

“You leave the outsiders here, leave your delinquent children here, and we will not be at war with your people on the outside tomorrow,” Cage offers smoothly.  “Leave these prisoners with us and walk away from this mountain, and when we walk away from it tomorrow we will walk among you in peace.  We have much to offer you; medicine, technology.  The culture and companionship your ancestors left behind on the ground.  You will flourish with our help.”  Fifty-seven seconds.  Clarke closes her eyes to compose herself.  The deal is asinine.  With a spitting sneer, she tells him as much.  Cage only smiles.

“Oh yes, I forgot to mention,” he adds, “it will be a trade.  Five people in exchange for the rest of the prisoners, including the Commander.”  The door bursts open, and Lexa clatters in holding Dante Wallace upright by the collar of his shirt.  She stops dead in the middle of the room seeing Clarke on the radio, and her eyes fall on Cage on the screen. “You hand over the Commander of the Twelve Clans and the three-hundred and seventy-six other Outsiders in this mountain, and you, Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Monty, and your Alpha walk free.”  Clarke ceases to breathe; neither Monty nor Lexa move.  

Of all of them, it’s the last mention that jolts her, and Clarke knows that Cage knows it.  Her view of Anya from here isn’t great, but she can see enough to know that her intended mate is suffering.  Anya is face up on the floor, arms bound beneath her back.  Her ankles are tied, and even from a distance, she can see a bruise blooming on the Alpha’s cheek.  Anya, who she promised the mountain would never hurt again, is back here at the mercy of these people who locked her in a cage and took her very blood away. She is back in what for any grounder is a true hell; locked away from sunlight and fresh air and the feel of the earth beneath her feet.  Having spent so little of her life in such a paradise after nearly eighteen years in a hell such as this, Clarke can understand.  Truly, for the first time, it occurs to her that a life on the ground is the only one worth living.  

Even worse, she can understand why Cage will do anything to give that to his people, too.  None of them, not the grounders or the Skaikru or even the Maunon, deserve a life locked away from the earth.  

Nevertheless, it’s beginning to look like one of them is going to have to choose. 

Clarke clicks the radio on.  

“Or, if you don’t let them go, I could kill your father instead.”  In Lexa’s grasp, Dante Wallace jerks slightly.  It prompts Lexa to shake him, hard, and he falls still.  

For the first time, Cage shows a sign of emotion.  His lip twitches a little, and his face grows slightly pale.    
“You’re bluffing.”  In answer, Clarke holds the button down and shoves the radio under Dante’s nose.  He complies on the instant.

“Stay the course, Cage.”  Cage’s eyes are widening.

“Dad — ”

“Your people come first.”  Lexa is regarding Dante with disgust, but he keeps his expression placid.  Monty shoots him a dirty look.  Clarke bring the radio back to her own lips.

“Let them go, and I’ll give him back, Cage,” she says easily.  On the screen, she can see Cage’s face contort.  For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and a tiny flutter makes her wonder if it might work.  

Then he steels himself, draws a deep breath; when he looks back to the camera, his face is once again the perfect mask.

“I’ll take care of our people, Dad,” he says quietly.  

The gunshot deafens Clarke in the small room, and Cage turns his face away, breathing hard.

Clarke takes advantage of the moment of reprieve as soon as Dante’s body hits the floor.  She drops her finger from the radio.  

“Monty?  The dormitory?” 

“Can’t be isolated without irradiating the rest of the level and killing every Mountain Man on it,” Monty reports with a shake of the head.  His eyebrows are pinched even tighter than before.  In the background, Lexa steps over Dante’s body, shaking her hands delicately free of his blood.  “We need a miracle here, Clarke.”  Lips pursed, hands shaking, Clarke turns to Lexa.

“Heda?” she asks, desperate for Lexa to show a hidden card.  But Lexa shakes her head.

“Even I do not see a way out of this without an army, Clarke,” she says quietly.  “It would take an act of the gods.”  Ice in her heart makes Clarke stand still.

_Then what’s to say that any of us aren’t gods?_

_You too fell from the stars and command your people to salvation, Skai Klark.  You tell me._

It might be an easy decision, Clarke realizes, for anyone else.  No doubt her mother might make a different call.  Clarke could lay down her gun right now and walk away with five of the most important people in her life.  She could ensure that the children and civilians in this mountain go unharmed, and that they get a chance to walk the earth.  She could take Anya away from all of this and ensure that she never falls under the mountain’s grasp again.  Cage knows it, and is preying on the Omega instinct that he knows screams at Clarke to protect her mate.  

Omegas in the mountain must be as deprived of their instincts as those on the Ark, because if Cage knew the lengths Clarke would go to in order to protect her people, he might not be so confident.  

They are all her people now. 

She clicks the radio back on.

“Here are some terms for you, Cage,” she tells him, and watches Monty and Lexa’s heads snap towards her as on the screen, Cage’s makes the same move.  “Let all of my people go, or I will irradiate Level Five.”  As she removes her finger from the button, she sees comprehension dawning on Lexa’s face, and a moment later, sees Monty frantically resume typing once more.  

On the monitor, Cage is shaking his head with a tiny smile.  

“I’ll let your sky children go, but the outsiders stay,” he wagers.  He’s bluffing, Clarke knows, but even if he’s not, it doesn’t matter.  Clarke shakes her head into the mouthpiece though she knows he cannot see.

“I said _my people._  Not just the Skaikru prisoners, but the grounders too.  All of them.  You will let everyone go and never shadow them with fear again, or everyone in this mountain will pay.”  She’s breathing heavily now; behind her, she can sense Lexa’s gaze heavy on her neck.  

“You won’t do it,” says Cage, and he sounds quietly assured.  “Look at the monitors, Miss Griffin.  Look at the dining room.  There are innocent people in here.  There are pups in here, babies.  See them with their families?  You won’t irradiate Level Five.  You are an Omega, Miss Griffin; don’t think that I believe for a moment that you would let little children die to save yourself.”  She can’t tell if he’s feeding her his true opinion or only playing for time, but Clarke no longer cares.  She can see them on the screen.  

Beneath the brand new jacket that smells of Anya and firelight and home, she can feel Myka’s weight on her chest.  

“The thing is, Cage, my people have children, too.”  It’s so quiet that she’s not even sure he hears.  “Offering me my Alpha and my friends in exchange for abandoning the rest of my people to die assumes I’m satisfied with anything less than protecting every single one of them.”  

It comes down to this: her people, or theirs.  Only one can survive, and so Clarke knows what she has to do.  Even though it means sacrificing people who have helped them along the way, there is no other solution.  She has no choice, and neither does Cage.  Both of them are only trying to save their people with no other way out.  Now Clarke understands why — not how, for though she has handed over a friend to death, she cannot fathom killing a mate — Abby gave Jake up to the Council.  One for the good of the many, only this time, it’s one civilization for the good of the rest.  

Something tells Clarke this is how wars start, but she has learned the history of the tiny, precious planet that they live on, and she knows that it is also how worlds end. 

On the screen, Cage’s expression has transformed into something ugly, a leering smile that promises danger as much as it does frustration.

“Well then,” he says quietly.  “Seeing as she’s worth so little to you . . .”  Stepping backwards a bit, he snaps his fingers at one of the guards who stands nearby.  A nod, and the man steps forward, and Clarke understands what’s going to happen before it does.  

In a moment, they’ve yanked Anya upright, and as she rouses a little with the movement, they drag her to the table and begin to strap her down.  

One for the good of the many.  

Clarke’s eyes rove over the screens.  All across them are displayed the residents of the mountain, all on Level Five.  The dining room, the apartments, the schoolroom where a class has gathered with finger paints.  Lincoln’s army unconscious in the hallway of Level Four.  Bellamy’s on Level Six.  Unconscious faces, some familiar, others less so, decorated with war paint and ferocity and pride.  Jasper and Maya in the dining hall.  Raven, Harper, Miller, Octavia, Indra.  Anya, who is beginning to wake.  

The fear and bravery splashed across Anya’s face is enough to make Clarke weep.  Her hands struggle as they tie her down, but they pin them, and in a moment she is scarcely able to move.  Then the needle pierces Anya’s skin, and Clarke sees only red.  She steps forward, the crowds of people unconscious and awake blurring into one in her vision.  

_Whatever it takes._

“It’s done.”  Monty is staring at the screen as though he can’t quite believe what he’s doing.  “You pull that lever, and the turbines reverse.  Once you pull it, it can’t be undone.” He looks exhausted, and later, Clarke will feel sympathy for this boy who has no malice himself but whose hand commits these deeds because he is bright and loves people who are less honorable than he.  

“I will do it.”  Lexa steps forward; her hand finds the lever as her eyes find Anya’s contorted figure on the screen.  “I am Heda; I am responsible for my people.”

Clarke steps forward, and her eyes land on Anya, too.

“They are all my people,” she says. 

Her hand grasps the handle beside Lexa’s, and together, they draw it down.


	8. The House of Hestia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clanya heat sex, Becho, Memori, minor Sea Mechanic, Omega group cuddles, broody Lexa, and Spacekru fluff, because we all deserve that and I love them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao you're welcome.

_"I am here because when all else fails, when all the other mighty gods have gone off to war, I am all that's left.  Home.  Hearth."_

Lexa is stalking from room to room raining holy hell down upon the cured Maunon guards and seeing about the survivors, but the minute everyone has fallen, Clarke darts up to the dormitory.  Lexa will handle the politics; the only urge in Clarke’s heart is to ensure that her Alpha is all right.

She barrels into the room at full speed, scattering the few who have been released and have already begun to shakily stand.  Not even bothering to snatch the keys from Murphy’s hand — she doesn’t know where he got them, where he came from, doesn’t remember seeing him on the monitors — she claws into the restraints and rips them from the table, and in an instant, she has Anya in her arms.  

“They hurt you, they _hurt_ you; I’m sorry; you’re here, you’re safe, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry.”_  She doesn’t realize that she’s whispering the words desperately as she pulls her Alpha close.  As she attempts to stand and draw her nearer, Anya’s body sags against her.  The combined weight is too much, and she collapses to the floor, sobbing, with her Alpha in her arms.  Her hand clutches Anya’s head to her heart.  “I have you, _ai niron,”_ she whispers, and Anya’s sob soaks her chest with tears.

She isn’t badly hurt, Clarke discovers in her frantic fussing.  There is a small nick in Anya’s thigh where the drill began to pierce her, but they weren’t able to drill any deeper before the irradiation began.  Nevertheless, her Alpha is frightened and shaking, and Clarke calms her using every method she knows.  She floods Anya with soothing pheromones, purring loudly and pouring every ounce of warmth she possesses into the trembling body in her arms.  

It is a dark day for them all.

Of the roughly one hundred people in the dormitory, only a few are injured enough to warrant being carried out on litters.  The majority are unharmed, though a little bruised and frightened.  Those who were hit with the knock-out gas nurse slamming headaches, and some of them take a while to find their footing.  It takes a while, too, for Clarke to be satisfied that Anya is all right, but once she is convinced, she uncurls herself and begins to call out orders from the floor.  A little while later, when Anya is able to stand, they join the ranks of a veritable army of Betas and Omegas that floods the mountain from the entrance above, led by Murphy and a tattooed grounder Beta whose left hand is securely wrapped in rags.  

At Clarke’s look of astonishment when she sees him, Murphy shrugs.  

“We made a run for it, got about as far as the trees outside the tunnel system when we ran into that boat clan lady,” he explains offhandedly when she questions him about it. “She said everybody in Tondisi got together after they executed Emerson and decided that they’d better have help waiting when all of this was done.  She didn’t know which way to go, so when we listened in on Emerson’s radio and heard you saying you were going to irradiate the mountain, we led her in.  She organized all of them setting up a whole campsite out there.  Pretty sure she just wanted to see Raven, though.”  

Sure enough, when Clarke emerges with Anya through the main door, having brought Octavia to Lincoln along the way, she stops dead in astonishment at the sight before her. Sprawled beneath them in the cradle of the mountain’s base is a massive encampment, forty or so tents surrounding several blazing fires.  The place is swarming with residents of Tondisi, people in the linen clothing Clarke recognizes as signature of the Floukru, and an assortment from other clans denoted by their bright clothing and distinctive red tattoos.  The volunteers run to and fro, leading or carrying the injured down the hill.  Some bend over the fires, where kettles of food steam and are ladled into bowls that stand ready.  A group of women hover at the door, offering what look like blankets they’ve brought from their own homes to the prisoners still clad in mesh.  

It’s an overwhelming display of compassion and camaraderie, and after the cruelty and evil she has witnessed today, the sight of such humanity brings Clarke to tears.  

“Look.”  Clarke follows Anya’s gesture to the edge of the camp nearest the base of the hill where people have gathered to greet their loved ones.  People embrace friends and family wrapped in blankets, crying out joyfully and shedding tears at the sight of the ones they once thought lost.  Among them, right in the middle, Abby stands at the head of a crowd of Skaikru.  Clarke’s eyes rove over them, taking in all who are there: David Miller, Kyle Monroe, Peter and Jenna McIntyre . . . over seventy adults in all, standing mingled with the grounders, their cries of joy and grief mixing until they’re one and the same.  

At her side, Anya gives a crooked smile.

“It seems our people are one, after all,” she says softly.  Clarke only sniffles, and stumbles down the hill with her Alpha to hug her mother and cry.

* * *

Raven doesn’t think she should be that surprised to find Luna here.  

After the way the Floukru leader spoke to her at the fire last night, and considering how attentively she supplied Raven with a coat and food and hot tea before they left, she shouldn’t find it surprising that Luna is here now, offering her services when they are needed the most.  From what Raven understands, she corralled the volunteers into coming to the mountain and offered her own people as help.  She herself is taking on the toughest roles, carrying the badly injured and holding warm drinks to their lips, carrying the dead to their families and consoling them through tears and screams.  She’s working with Bellamy to tend to the weakest of the grounder prisoners, broadcasting her odd, multilayered pheromones to calm them when they stumble and blink in shock at the door.  Helping appears to be Luna’s strong suit.

Raven doesn’t know how to feel about it.  She hasn’t really had time to consider it, not with almost being drilled for bone marrow, but the arrival of the grounder volunteers is forcing it into her mind.  She doesn’t think she’s ever seen the people of the Ark display such humanitarianism and solidarity.  That part isn’t surprising considering they’ve never had the freedom nor the resources to care for one another.  No, it’s the fact that Raven is seeing, for the second time in twenty-four hours, the true culture of these people that she only days ago saw as her mortal enemies.  

If this is how the grounders react to people in need, Raven might have to reconsider her opinion of them.  Raven has spent a great deal of her life in need, whether she has liked to accept offered help or not.  On the Ark, when her mother drank away her rations, only Finn was selfless enough to help her.  Now, with her leg so badly hurt, Raven is forced to accept the fact that she will have to rely on someone else, at least for some things.  The Skaikru, she knows, will only see her as a burden for it.  

That being said, Raven doesn’t know if she can live among the Trikru.  She’s not like Clarke and Octavia, who have found mates and common ground and a sense of belonging. It’s easy to see, watching the two of them hold conversations in Trigedasleng and don Trikru armor and participate in old traditions, that they have found their home here. Lincoln and Anya are clearly a part of that, but Raven thinks that it might very well be the case even if Clarke and Octavia didn’t find mates.  Both of them have found something in common with these people, something that they’d like to share.

Raven can’t say the same for herself.  They were once at war, after all, and while she can now see the Trikru as allies, she’s not sure that she’ll ever reach the level of amiability with them that her friends have.  There is too much bad blood, too much that has been lost and sacrificed.  She’s not sure that she could ever be one with the people who Finn murdered, and who murdered Finn.  Even without the terrible daily reminders of what they’ve lost, she isn’t sure she would fit in anyway.  Their armor is too heavy, their warpaint too wild; their clothing and homes are rough and woodsy in a way that suits Clarke and Octavia, but Raven isn’t sure she feels the same.  The Floukru, with their bright linen clothing and easy smiles and windswept hair, feel somehow more comfortable and welcoming.  

Raven knows the offer on the table.  She knows that as soon as cleanup is complete, another Council session will be held, and the fate of the Skaikru decided.  At that point, whichever way the pendulum swings, amnesty will be offered to the Omegas, Raven among them.  Floukru will absorb any who wish to accept a home within their ranks.  They will follow Luna and her people home to the ocean and build a life beside the waves.  

Raven thinks she might be among them when they do.  A day ago, she’s not sure she would have considered defecting, but watching Luna work, seeing the way her serious eyes and bright smile light up at people, noticing the way her wild hair catches the sunlight, Raven breathes in the scent of saltwater wind and thinks that times might be changing.

For the first time, changing with them doesn’t feel like the wrong thing to do. 

* * *

It takes hours to lead all of the survivors out into the sun.  

Bellamy, Anya, and Luna take on the task, mostly carrying the starving grounders from Level Six all the way up the stairs.  The reaper tunnels are so winding, so treacherous, that the stairs are the better option, but it takes time.  Many are too shaky or tired to stand, half-conscious and weakened from blood loss.  At the door, they are handed over to the Podakru women who stand ready with blankets and usher them off to the arms of their waiting families who have traveled from every clan upon hearing the news that their captured loved ones might still be alive.

Octavia and Lincoln join forces with Callum and Jean under Indra’s command, making themselves available wherever they are needed.  They rouse their fellow warriors from the floors and lead them to water, then return to lead the forty-seven — now forty-one — to their families in the sunlight.  Clarke and Abby join Nyko in the camp to treat the wounded.  By the time all of the survivors have been recovered and the injured helped as much as their supplies allow, it is late afternoon, and the shadows in the camp are beginning to lengthen.

Clarke finds Anya at the edge of the crowd, where the Alpha has limped down the hill to restore the last prisoner to her waiting crowd of warrior friends.  

“It is done,” Anya breathes out heavily as Clarke approaches.  The Omega slides her arms around her waist, nosing into her hair briefly to inhale her tired scent.  “Everyone is out, and we have saved all of those who were not beyond saving.  I am _tired.”_  The last part comes out as a groan, and Anya sinks down onto a stump with eyes that threaten to close.  Clarke’s heart twinges at the sight.  All through the long morning and afternoon, she has ached to soothe Anya, knowing how the exhaustion seeps into her bones.  It feels odd that suddenly, after so many days of holding off for the sake of war preparations, she can do exactly that.  There is little more hanging over them now.  As soon as all has been set right here and the Council has settled the matter of the Skaikru, she and Anya will be able to go home.

It is something Clarke has not yet allowed herself to fully look forward to.  With the new recognition that it might actually be real, she finds the prospect almost overwhelming.

Still, there are a few more things to do before she can allow herself to relax.  Namely, ensure that everyone is all right.  The violent, snarling Omega that emerged from Clarke in the mountain has died down a little, but the part that lingers remains aggressively, almost compulsively aware of the fact that the people she has worked so hard to save are injured and grieving.  Clarke itches to heal them all, to stalk up and down among the groups of survivors and ensure that every last one of them is safe and sound.  Something tells her she’ll be unable to rest until she makes sure that no one is left alone and hurt.  It’s certainly feeding her exhaustion.  

Almost as if the Omega within her is aware that something is amiss, Clarke finds herself observing the scene with critical eyes.  She doesn’t quite know what she’s looking for, has nothing more than a feeling that someone has gone neglected.  

And then at the edge of the crowd, a lone figure snags her attention.

“Anya,” Clarke says quietly as she stands behind her Alpha, hands on her shoulders, “all of the warriors and families have taken in their _niron_ , except that one over there. Look.”  A glance over to the rescued shows Anya what Clarke is talking about; a woman stands to the side, removed from the group, shivering and miserable-looking wrapped in her thin blanket. 

“An Omega,” Anya answers.  “Azgeda, I believe.”  Clarke nods.  

“She is cold,” she says softly.  “Alone.”  Anya smiles slightly, understanding the unspoken instinct.

“Go warm her,” she urges quietly.  “Omegas take comfort in one another.  She needs a companion.”  Reassured by this encouragement, Clarke drop a kiss on the crown of Anya’s head.  She gives the Alpha’s shoulders a quick, grateful squeeze, and then she is in motion, feeling Anya’s fond gaze follow her to the edge of the circle of warmth cast by the fire.

As Clarke approaches her, the Azgeda warrior startles nervously.

 _“Ai laik Klark,”_ is the soft introduction when Clarke draws close enough to speak.  The Omega, she now sees, is startlingly attractive.  She is wan and pale with exhaustion and hunger, but starved remnants of powerful muscles linger on her frame.  Her hair is dirty, but a soft golden brown beneath the grime, and a few braids linger.  An intricate tattoo decorates one shoulder. 

“I am Echo,” the woman says hesitantly with dark eyes distant.  “You are the one who saved us, Wanheda.”  Anya was right; she is Azgedan, Clarke decides, can sense it in the thin bones and cool strength, the sharpness at the edges of her accent.  The braids indicate that the Omega is a warrior, but Clarke sees no kill scars.  This woman is a mystery to unravel.  

“You look cold,” Clarke says instead of responding to the new title.  She’ll file it away to ask Anya about later.  Slowly, the woman nods.  

Clarke snatches up another blanket from the pile nearby.  Quickly, she makes short work of her coat, opening her jacket to the chest bindings and bare skin underneath.  Echo eyes her warily. 

“Come,” Clarke says simply, and after a moment, sucking in her friendly Omega scent, Echo does.  As she steps up, Clarke wraps the new blanket around her back and pulls her in.  It is not hard to urge her nearer once Echo is close enough to feel her body heat, and in a moment, she is pressing the other Omega close.  Echo is taller, significantly so, but she manages to nestle in anyway.  Her whole body relaxes when their skin touches; dropping the tension from her shoulders, she tucks her face into Clarke’s neck and closes her eyes with a sigh.  

Clarke drops her nose to grimy hair and breathes in.  Echo’s scent is tinged with snow beneath the blood and metal stench of the mountain.  There are notes in it, too, of wood and earth, of wind; of something heady and light that Clarke knows instinctively is crocuses, though she’s never seen them in real life.  Underneath it all, she can sense the blossoming of something deeper, and knows that with more nourishment in her body and time to rest, her sister Omega will soon be in heat.  The scent makes Clarke feel surprisingly protective.

To her surprise, after they have been standing there for several minutes, Murphy approaches.  He’s sweaty with the effort of hauling firewood from the edge of the forest to the campfires, and there’s soot smeared across his forehead.  Clarke hasn’t seen him in hours, and she’s dimly surprised to find he’s stuck around.

“Cold Omega party?” he asks quietly.  “Mind if I join?”  On any other day, Clarke would balk at the thought of inviting John Murphy to a cuddle session, but today is not that day. Echo is warming up a bit against her, but she could use some extra body heat, and Clarke is a little weary from producing it all on her own.  Besides, Murphy has proven himself in the last twelve hours, oddly, to be more of a team-player, less of a cold-hearted traitor, than she once thought him to be.  Clarke lifts the arm to hold the blanket open, and Murphy bundles himself in.  

Scarcely five minutes pass before a low voice interrupts them again.  

“Hey, guys.”  Harper looks shaken, a little unsteady on her feet.  She’s pale and tired, and Clarke knows before she even catches her scent that she’s almost ill with fear and pain and worn-out adrenaline.  Wordlessly, she nudges Murphy over, and three becomes four.  Another minute passes, and Clarke feels Echo swaying on her feet; realizing that this will work much better on the ground, she urges the rest to lie down, and everyone sinks to the cold grass with a collective exhale of relieved exhaustion.  

Not another minute goes by before there’s a quiet clearing of a throat, and Clarke looks up from her position sandwiched between Echo and Murphy to see Raven standing hesitantly above them.  

“Get in here,” she commands before Raven can get the words out of her open mouth, and with a tiny chuckle, Raven grasps her injured knee and lowers herself down.  Before they know it, all five Omegas are huddled together for warmth and comfort, the uninjured Clarke and Murphy providing the heat for the other three.  

It’s the safest she’s felt anywhere but Anya’s arms, Clarke realizes, adjusting herself without complaint as Harper’s elbow mashes into her nose.  Echo’s heart is beating against her chest; Murphy’s arms ensnare her waist, and the knuckles of the hand Harper’s resting on Echo’s belly brush against Clarke’s ribs.  On the other side of Murphy, Raven’s hair spreads across them both and tickles her neck.  There’s something deeply calming to Clarke about being surrounded on all sides by four other people who share her designation.  Their sunlit-hair-and-warm-skin Omega scent is welcoming, and as Clarke sinks into it further, she feels it wrap around her like a blanket, heavy and comforting. She can sense Echo and Harper’s pain fading; at the same time, she feels their touch slowly begin to soothe her own burgeoning heat. 

“There was a man,” Echo says quietly after a long while in which all of them breathe against each other in tired silence.  Her voice is muffled against Clarke’s collarbone.  “A — he called himself _Bellomi._  He rescued me, and I would like — I would like to thank him.”  Around her, Clarke can feel one or two of the others stirring in recognition.  She untangles her head a bit, momentarily taken aback.  Then she smiles.  

“He’s our friend,” she tells Echo, understanding the unspoken question.  “He’s a good man.  A good Alpha.”  She understands that the clans’ experience with Skaikru has likely made them gun-shy, and while she doesn’t blame them in the slightest, she wants to be certain to reassure Echo.

Satisfied, Echo burrows back deeper into her chest.  

“That is what I wanted to know.”  

* * *

Bellamy follows Echo’s scent to the edge of the camp before he loses it in the crowd.  He’s been looking for her for the past half hour, after Luna finally declares that the mountain has been swept and all of the surviving prisoners rescued.  It is then that he allows his mind to finally turn back to where it’s been wanting to stray.  

Echo.  Bellamy is intensely drawn to this fierce Azgedan Omega in a way he hasn’t quite been drawn to anyone before.  There is something about her that absolutely captivates him, fascinates him and urges him to pry apart the mysteries of this spitfire of a woman.  It feels odd and cliche, and he’s not quite sure he understands it, but evidently his brain has decided that it’s not going to let it go.  He’s beginning to understand what Octavia meant when she said attraction works faster on the ground.  At any rate, he wants to find Echo to satisfy the whining of his inner Alpha, the deep and instinctive urge to make sure that she’s safe.  He knows that she is, didn’t see her body among the dead, but he’s worried anyway.  He can’t seem to help it.  

But he loses her scent at the edge of the crowd, because as sweet as it smells to him, there are a number of Omegas here, all of them distressed and hungry, and the scent of their collective exhaustion and hunger overwhelms any individual notes.  Everyone looks the same in the stretched-out evening light.  The prisoners are still in their mesh, but now wrapped in blankets and ensnared in hugs, and it’s hard to pick anyone out of the crowd.  He can’t even see Clarke, her bright hair usually such an identifying factor, but she’s lost in the sea of strangers and swathes of colorful fabric.  

He runs into Anya near one of the campfires.  They’ve spent the past few hours working not exactly together, but near one another as they’ve ferried the prisoners out of the mountain.  When he left Camp Jaha less than a week ago, he would’ve sworn she didn’t like him.  At best, she was unfriendly and standoffish; jealous, he knows, of the affection he shares with Clarke.  She has no reason to worry, never has.  Clarke is his best friend, his closest companion besides Octavia, but there is nothing but familial love and protectiveness between them.  

Anya seems to know it now, too.  She looks more settled in herself, more certain.  When he left Camp Jaha, she and Clarke were teetering on the edge of something.  He remembers wondering why they weren’t giving in; now, it seems they finally have.  Bellamy doesn’t know what happened in the days he was away, but he can smell the beginnings of Clarke’s heat on Anya, and he thinks he can make a pretty good guess.  He’s happy that they’ve found each other.  They’ll be good to each other.

He approaches the other Alpha where she’s perched on a log by the fire, staring off at something a little ways away.  A pile of spare blankets, he thinks.  He keeps his countenance friendly as he reaches her.  

“Anya.”  

“Bellamy Blake,” Anya greets mildly.  Bellamy keeps his head lowered the slightest bit, a sign of respect.  He doesn’t think Anya is much older than he is — a few years at most, he’s pretty sure — but she far outstrips him in rank and physical strength.  It’s polite to show his deference.  “How are you faring?”  He’s only a little surprised that she’s showing interest in his wellbeing.  He can smell Clarke on her, and she knows it; there is no reason for them to be anything but friendly with each other.  

“I’m looking for someone, actually,” he says, making her tilt her head at him in interest.  “An Omega who was a prisoner in the mountain.  Azgeda.  Her name is Echo.”  He can smell her a little now, he thinks, but with everyone’s mingling scents he might just be picking up on hints that are a combination of everyone else.  Anya’s nose is biased, but she’s been on the ground for at least a good quarter century longer than he has, and is likely used to nosing out crowded spaces.  Maybe she can help.  

To his puzzlement, Anya’s eyes twinkle.  Her lip quirks in amusement as she nods her head toward the edge of the camp.  

“I do not know all of their names, but you could try the ones Klark found,” she suggests with a slight chuckle.  Following her gaze, Bellamy struggles to make out what she’s looking at.  It’s a little hard with the evening light blurring things together, but in a moment things solidify, and he realizes that the thing he took for a stack of blankets is actually a pile of people.  Counting by boots, there are at least five of them.  From a distance, he can make out Clarke’s hair, Raven’s knee brace, and the denim jacket that he’s fairly sure belongs to Murphy. 

Anya huffs out a laugh at what he’s sure is a look of utter bemusement on his face.  

“Some of them were cold,” she explains to him with an indulgent smile.  “The others wanted to warm them.  I am sure that the injured ones were making the rest quite uncomfortable.”  Bellamy only frowns his confusion at that.

“Why would that be?” he wants to know.  He’s not an expert on Omegas; his mother, while an Omega herself, hardly interacted with anyone after Octavia’s birth and shared almost no information about her designation with her Alpha children.  There was never any reason to discuss it.

Seeing his puzzlement, Anya elaborates.  

“Omegas share bonds not unlike siblings,” she clarifies.  He doesn’t remove his gaze from the group, but he can feel her looking at him.  “Though also not like family, since they can bring one another physical comfort in a way siblings would not.  They can become quite attached, and they are often tuned in to each other in a way we are not.  When one of them is unwell, the rest will feel it, and react to comfort them.”  This is news to Bellamy, who thought such levels of empathy were reserved for families and bonded mates.  It explains some of the Hundred’s behavior at the drop ship.  

“I didn’t know that.”  Clearly, he has a lot to learn from being on the ground, and he’d like to do it fast.  This kind of information will be good to bear in mind.  

Anya yields a small smile as Clarke smacks good-naturedly at Murphy, who is beginning to crush her a little.

“It is good that they have this,” she tells Bellamy.  “Omegas need each other for companionship.  They heal better in the presence of other Omegas.  They calm one another in their heats, and if they choose to bear them, their pups will be stronger for having such a tight circle to dote upon them and the one who bears them.  If some of these five can find homes near each other, it will be good for all of them.”  It’s a casual mention, but it brings up something Bellamy has been considering in the past hour as he’s watched the camp’s proceedings.  

“I was wondering,” he begins, and Anya breaks her gaze away from the Omegas to regard him with a lifted eyebrow.  “Octavia said on the radio that the Floukru have offered to take in our Omegas and Betas, if they want to go.  I understand why, but I was wondering . . . not all of the Skaikru Alphas are okay with how our Omegas are treated,” he sidesteps.  He’s referring to himself and Octavia, because they’re the only ones he knows of for whom that’s true, but he figures they might have a better chance if he’s vague about how many of them there are.  “Do you think . . . would they be willing to take a few Alphas, ones who they know are good?”  Anya eyes him knowingly.

“Your sister asked the same.  Defectors are defectors, regardless of designation,” is all she says, but Bellamy understands the message, and doesn’t push it.  That’s all he needed to know.  

“Thank you,” he says, before he can accidentally dig himself into any holes.  The two have them have finally managed to be amicable; he doesn’t want to ruin what progress they’ve made by putting his foot in his mouth.  “I’m going to go . . .” he gestures in the direction of the Omegas, and Anya inclines her head.  Bellamy takes his leave.  

“Bellamy.”  Anya’s voice makes him halt in his tracks.  The other Alpha is watching him with a curious expression on her face.  “I should warn you.  Azgeda . . . does not think the way the rest of the clans do.  I know you are not like the rest of your  _skai_ Alphas, but you should consider what you say carefully.”  They hold eye contact, Anya’s gaze significant.  After a moment, Bellamy nods, and turns his attention instead to the Omegas.  

They’re not that far away, but the heat of the fire is significantly diminished out where they’re lying in their blanket huddle on the ground.  No wonder they’re cold.  Bellamy looks down at the tangled heap of Omegas and restrains a chuckle.  They’re cuddled so close together that all of their limbs are jumbled up, and he can scarcely tell which arms and legs belong to whom.  

There are indeed five of them: Raven, Murphy, Clarke, Harper, and Echo.  The tangle is immense.  Raven has her good leg and an arm slung over Murphy, who is effectively spooning Clarke.  Clarke has Echo nestled against her chest inside her jacket, and their legs are tangled together firmly.  Echo’s nose is buried in the hollow of Clarke’s throat. On Echo’s other side, Harper has both arms around her waist and her face in her hair, and there’s a stray leg somewhere whose owner Bellamy can’t figure out for the life of him.  

He can’t keep the chuckle in any longer.  

Immediately, four heads pop up to investigate the source of the noise.  Bellamy laughs a little harder at the sight of four pinched, sleepily indignant expressions.  Echo is the only one who doesn’t raise her head; by the looks of it, she’s falling asleep.  As much as the sight of all of them amuses him, Bellamy feels a rush of gladness at the thought that she’s feeling safe enough to get some much needed rest.  It appears Anya is right about the comfort thing.  

“What d’you want, Bellamy?” Harper demands of him sleepily.  

“Yeah, we were comfy,” Murphy complains.  Raven lets out a groan and drops her head back between his shoulder blades.

“Some of us still are,” is her grouchy response.  Clarke alone offers Bellamy a wide smile, and he’s reminded that he hasn’t seen her in days.  So much has occurred since they’ve last spoken that he thinks it will probably take them hours to catch up.  Maybe once everything has been cleaned up they’ll have time to talk.  For now, he’s just relieved to see that she’s all right.  He knows what she had to do to save them all, and he thinks, privately, that this Omega snuggle pile is the only reason she isn’t currently losing her mind. It’s a good thing she has these four and Anya to hang onto.  

But Bellamy has another reason to be here right now, and he thinks it will do them all some good.

“It’s dinner time,” he announces, and watches as their expressions change from disgruntled to delighted.  “Luna says there’s food at the main fire, and they’re serving prisoners and Omegas first.  I figured you’d want to know.”  They’re detangling and scrambling to their feet before he’s even finished speaking.  Murphy and Harper take off at a jog, with Raven following close behind.  “Hey, Murphy!” he calls after the fleeing trio.  “Some grounder Beta was asking about you at the tree line — said her name was Emori!”  A brief flash of interest and a nod, and Murphy changes course as Raven catches up with Harper and they dart off towards the fire.

Clarke takes a moment longer, careful not to jostle Echo as she untangles herself from the other Omega.  She shakes her gently to wake her, murmuring to her.  Echo peels herself back from Clarke’s chest with a scrunched up nose.

 _“Chit kom au?”_ she asks dazedly as she blinks herself awake.  Clarke nudges her nose affectionately into her temple before sitting up.

 _“Dina,”_ she tells her with a grin, and they both watch as Echo’s eyes open wider.  “I’m going to go do a final check on everyone before I eat, but Bellamy can show you the way.” Echo can find the way for herself, he’s sure, but he appreciates the effort Clarke’s making on his behalf.  He also saw the way Echo was holding herself in the mountain, and he’s pretty sure she can’t stand up very well on her own.  This way, he can help her over.  

Echo is blinking up at him, clearly only just registering his presence.  He watches the emotions flash through her eyes as he catches them in her scent: confusion, wariness, relief, and then finally, an odd and cautious joy.  It confuses him, and he hesitates, taken aback.  The prospect of getting food into Echo, though, is what spurs him to action a moment later, and he’s stretching out a hand for Echo to take before he can think twice.  She eyes him for a moment, then takes it.  Clarke squeezes his shoulder as she passes and wanders off while he helps Echo up, and they’re left alone, watching each other curiously in the long evening light.  

“So your name is Echo,” Bellamy says after they regard each other briefly.  They exchanged names in the mountain, but he doesn’t think they’ve been properly introduced.  She gives him a stare he can’t quite decipher at that.  Her dark eyes glitter.  

“Kom Azgeda,” she adds after a brief hesitation.  “You are Bellomi.”  Bellamy inclines his head.

“Kom Skaikru,” he confirms.  She’s got that look on her face again, the same one she had when he let her out of her cage.  He can’t quite get a read on it.  He notices, though, that in the absence of Clarke and Harper’s warmth she’s begun to shiver again.  Someone has given her a pair of pants, but her legs are long and they’re a little too short for her.  She’s got a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, but her top half is otherwise bare save the mesh tape.  

Bellamy shoulders off his jacket and in a moment has it extended in offering.  “May I?” he requests in a murmur.  Echo eyes the jacket, clearly hesitant.  A moment later, though, she allows a brief, subtle nod, and Bellamy feels himself relax.  Without wasting any time, he wraps the leather, warm from his body, around Echo’s shoulders.  The Omega clutches it to herself along with the blanket; Bellamy doesn’t miss the way she inhales at the collar, and a moment later, the way her body visibly releases tension at his Alpha scent.  Something in Bellamy’s chest stirs at the sight.

“Thank you,” Echo murmurs.  She’s close enough now to touch, but Bellamy doesn’t reach out yet; after who knows how long in the mountain, he’s sure the Omega’s startle reflex is strong.  

“You’re welcome,” he rumbles instead, and lets the pheromones he’s releasing shift from concerned to gentle.  “Now, I know they won’t feed me yet, but Luna told me they’ve got a great meal prepared for everyone.  Would you like to join me at the fire, and I’ll bring you some?”  Echo is watching him intensely with her round dark eyes, and he’s hit with the recognition that she’s as drawn to him as he is to her.

She nods.  

“I would like that.”    

* * *

There is much left to be done.

The pyres will burn, as tradition dictates, with laurel and sage at the breaking of the dawn.  There will be two, one for those who died at the Maunon’s hands, and the rest for the people who today lost their lives as one civilization fell, and in its place, another rose.  The people of the mountain, who for ninety-seven years lived every day without seeing the sun, will go back to ash when the light breaks over the edge of the earth.  It is a fitting end for the grandchildren of the governments and armies who lit the world on fire long ago.  

Tomorrow, the Council will convene a final time to decide the fate of the Skaikru.  All eleven ambassadors came to volunteer, so there will be no need to wait for any of them to arrive.  As soon as the pyres have been lit and the proper honor paid to the dead, the proceedings will commence.  When all has been decided, the hundreds who have gathered here will disperse. They will leave together, families and friends reunited and mourning, free at last of the monsters who have hunted them in the dark since the falling of the Old World.  

It is a victory, but it is not a victorious end.  

Lexa stands at the top of the small hill, eyes caught in the bright stretch where the ground meets the sky.  It seems unbelievable to her that in two short months, so much of this world has changed.  A civilization has fallen from the sky into her people’s lands and gone to war.  They have been captured, and negotiated peace, and then together, Earth and sky have joined to defeat the monsters that belonged neither above nor below.  There are innocents among the fallen; pups, people who sought to help them.  

Somehow, there always are, and they always seem to suffer because of Lexa.  This is the first time in living memory that the loss of innocent people is not Lexa’s fault.  

Though really, it’s the same.  Clarke is not so different from her, Lexa realizes; both of them have had leadership thrust upon them through no choice of their own.  The destruction they have wrought is only a symptom of the duties they are forced to carry out, not of any desire they have to use death in a rise to power.  It doesn’t make it any better.  Neither of them have ever had any other choice.  

At least Clarke has had the opportunity to save the ones she loves.  Anya, Bellamy, Octavia, Raven; all were saved because Clarke saw her people suffering and chose to wreak destruction in order to end it.  It is a choice Lexa didn’t have, one she has considered every day for the last four years.  With each dawn that rises upon Lexa’s bed and shows nothing but furs and sunlight, another day passes since the morning that she found Costia’s head beside her, and another day passes in which Lexa is alone.  The mornings that come are forever fragmented, empty of more than mere blood.

Sometimes Lexa wonders if Costia would have lived had she loved her less.  Then she thinks that if she loved her less it wouldn't have mattered and wonders if, since Costia died because of Lexa’s love anyway, she ought to have loved her even more.  

* * *

When the others go to claim their dinner, Clarke slips away back into the mountain and down to Level Five.

The mountain is entirely deserted.  Complete silence meets her ears at every turn, and the absence of guards or voices makes Clarke feel like she ought to be on her guard. There is though, of course, no reason to be.  With the armies and prisoners gone, it feels almost easy to pretend that no one was ever here in the first place; that this was another uninhabited bunker they stumbled across, empty and massive and silent.  

Then she reaches the door of the dining room, and the enormity of what she has done is visible for the first time.  

There are perhaps two hundred people, almost all of the inhabitants of the mountain.  Two hundred bodies.  Two hundred family members, friends, and pups, all slumped to the floor and in their chairs, across tables and each other’s laps.  Two hundred faces burned and blurred beyond recognition.  Four hundred half-closed, clouded eyes.  

The sick horror of it, after everything, is too much, and Clarke leans over behind a pillar and vomits.  

When she’s coughed and heaved until there’s nothing left, she stands, gasping, bracing one arm against the pillar for support.  The room spins.  It doesn’t seem possible, doesn’t seem real; Clarke never wanted this for any of them.  She understands, she _knows,_ that there was no other way.  No other choice.  She was handed a coin and flipped it, and the other side would show Lexa’s armies, her friends, her family; their people in these people’s place.  The hours Clarke has spent in this mountain have been the darkest of her life, and yet remembering the alternative, she finds that given a chance to turn back the hours, her decision wouldn’t change.  It’s awful to see the consequences, but the worst part of it is that Clarke can’t even manage to feel guilty when she knows that she did it to protect her people.  

They needed a miracle, Monty said.  If Clarke can do this on her own, she doesn’t want to imagine what kind of destruction an act of the gods would bring.  

The smell of putrid flesh makes her stomach lurch and her head scream.  The sides of her stomach feel like they’re banging together; it’s not possible to throw up anymore. Then she catches sight of Maya sprawled on the floor, her head in Jasper’s lap, both their faces red with the blood from the bullet that hit Jasper before they both fell.  

Clarke curls over and throws up until her vision goes grey.  

It’s long minutes before she’s able to breathe without feeling like she’s choking on air.  When she’s finally done, her chest heaving, she straightens up.  Letting her eyes fall closed, she draws a deep breath.  The stench of death and blood washes into her lungs, and she lets it, lets herself feel the rot seep in and fester and take root.  Then she opens her eyes and sets to work.

It takes hours to track down every person, match every name tag, but when it’s done, every person is with their family, and every pup is in their parents’ arms.  Clarke brushes her hand over Jasper’s hair, whispers a final _thank you_ against Maya’s cheek, and walks back out and into the open air.

Lexa finds Clarke afterward, staring at the door to the mountain now hanging open, a faraway look in her eyes.  The young Heda doesn’t speak, only watches her with her solemn eyes.  It makes Clarke twitch a little.  She knows she should feel empty, knows she should feel guilty, yet she finds that of all the emotions crashing through her chest, guilt is not among them.  There is nothing in her heart but sorrow for the lives that have been given, and even worse than that, relief.  She remembers Anya’s words back at Camp Jaha.   _Blood will be spilled, and in time you will learn to accept that as our way of life._

The Skaikru came back to Earth to find it neither empty nor full of the splendor of the civilization that came before.  The days of the Ark, of the Old World, are over.  They are living in a time of swords, a time of Commanders and legends and hope and war.  Their people will die, and enemies will die when their people are threatened.  Blood will be spilled, and born, and given, but no longer will it be stolen by those who seek to avoid the fight.  The people of the clans will sleep soundly in their beds, their children safe, their families restored.

This will not be the life that Skaikru envisioned.  It will be a hard life, but seeing the spread of the camp before her, the humanity that reaches out and upward with its furling tendrils of fire smoke, Clarke thinks it might be one worth living.

There’s an expression on Lexa’s face as she watches her that suggests she knows exactly how Clarke feels.  

It occurs to Clarke that she does.  Anya hasn’t told her much, but she knows about the Conclave.  Knows the way that _natblida_ children are ripped from their families and trained for a battle to the death where the lone survivor will shoulder not only the guilt of killing his or her compatriots, but the weight of an entire nation.  She’s done the math, and knows that Lexa must have ascended to the throne before she even presented.  It occurs to her slowly that Lexa must have been a child once, too; a baby, even, saddled by the color of her blood with the honor of commanding the last people on Earth and sacrificing her own joy and liberty and love for the sake of a nation.  It’s hard to picture her as anything but the woman who stands before her today; stoic and lonesome and unbearably, achingly sad.  She is so pretty standing there, sad-eyed and so achingly alone.  She deserves better than that.  

Clarke wonders what it would have been like in another world, where she was not Heda, but _Lexa._  Only Lexa, without the weight of the world.  It fills Clarke with nostalgia for something that never was.  She feels unbearable sadness at the thought of who Lexa could have been.  

And yet there is so much good in what Lexa _is._  A world without the Commander would be a world with only Lexa, but she would never have been Heda, and a world without Heda would be a lesser place.  

“The days are short, Wanheda.”  Lexa’s voice is soft in the gathering dark.  Slowly, Clarke turns her head to her, and sees the sunset reflected like fire in Heda’s eyes.  It takes her a moment to decide whether such words warrant a response.  

“I have heard them calling me that,” she says finally.  “Everyone at the fires whispered it when I went past.  It means something.” 

“Commander of Death,” is the quiet reply.  It is somehow not unexpected, but the world tips a little anyway beneath Clarke’s feet.  

“I never wanted that,” she says quietly when she is able to speak.  Lexa fastens her sharp gaze on her, and Clarke gets the impression that she’s looking right through her.

“It is not about what you intended, Klark, but what you have become to them,” she says meaningfully.  “I am sure Anya has told you some of our stories, but I doubt she told you of this one.”  That gets Clarke’s attention; snagging her eyes back from the camp, she frowns at Lexa.  “Wanheda,” Lexa elaborates, “is a legend told by our people.  The story holds that when our people are facing their greatest threat, Wanheda will strike it down and be our great defender.  Like Bekka Pramheda, she is an Omega who will fall from the sky, and she will deliver us from death.”  Clarke stares.

“But that’s not — I’m not — ” she protests, but there is no traction in her objections.  Lexa silences her with nothing more than a glance.

“And so you fell from the sky, Klark, and delivered our people from the evil that has haunted them for nearly a century,” she tells her with the simplicity of one who knows what it is to bear a title heavier than one’s own heart.  “You are Wanheda not because you bring death, but because you command it; you set it upon our enemy, and you deliver our people from it and bring them peace.”  

All that Clarke can do is stare.  

It doesn’t seem possible; doesn’t seem fair.  Clarke is Clarke, and Lexa is Lexa, and Bekka Pramheda, whoever she was, was a woman on a space station who fell to the ground. Clarke respects the Trikru legends, their traditions and beliefs, but she can’t bring herself to believe in what Lexa is saying, because it would be too ludicrous to imagine.  

And yet.

Clarke doesn’t believe in gods, but looking at Lexa, feeling the tingle on her skin that the Commander’s gaze produces, she’s beginning to understand.  Lexa is more an entity of honor and wisdom than she is a woman, and it isn’t merely the effect of the strong and dignified leader she has become.  Clarke doesn’t understand how the Spirit of the Commander works, how a child was born one of few deserving of the honor and was chosen from them to command with such wisdom.  She doesn’t know if it’s reincarnation or stardust or science beyond their comprehension, or what any of that might mean for them all.

And yet, with the last sun rays catching on the edges of her eyes, Clarke knows, distinctly and without a shadow of a doubt, that there is more to all of this, more to Lexa, than happenstance can explain away.

Lexa appears to know how she feels about it, for she raises her eyebrow significantly, and nods her head toward the crowd below.

“The realness of gods is not in nightblood or Ichor or eternal power, Klark,” she says softly.  “It is in the believing.”  

That gives Clarke a whole new existential crisis to considers, and she turns herself over to overwhelmed silence.

It is a long time before either of them speak again.

“Tell me we are better than this,” Clarke says at last.  The whisper is tight and desperate.  Her pleading eyes on Lexa reflect the shallow moonlight that rises in the sunset.  “Tell me we are more than what we have done here today.  That we have survived for a reason; that these people haven't died, and that I am not the Commander of Death, merely for the sake of a survival we don’t deserve.”  It takes Lexa a minute to respond, but when she does, her eyes reflect moonlight back in equal measure.

“I cannot believe that we have survived if there is nothing left to live for,” she says quietly.  “Life for survival’s sake is not living, Klark.  I believe we deserve better than that. This is not one of our better hours, but humanity must persist for a reason, even if we may not know what it is.  We are much more than what has been done here today.” There’s a steady certainty in her words that makes Clarke know that she is certain of it in some way that is beyond description.  It steadies her, and she feels herself begin to let go.

Lexa turns back to the gathering below them, and her shoulders are straight once more.  There is a new lightness in her eyes that can only come from triumph and relief of the vanquishing of a long-held enemy.

“And now it is time to celebrate,” she declares with new energy.  “The dead are gone, Klark.  The living are hungry.”

* * *

There’s a grounder girl with hair her color and a face tattoo standing in the way when Raven goes to slosh out the Azgedan moonshine Prince Roan pressed into her hand.  

Raven almost hits her with it, which is a shame, because she thinks it might have added a little levity if she did.  As it is, she’s driven a little close to hysterics by this whole, godforsaken overwhelming day anyway, and maybe dousing a grounder in what’s essentially rubbing alcohol won’t fix it, but it certainly can’t make it any worse.  She’s already regretting throwing it a little despite already being fairly tipsy.  Raven’s not one to turn down a drink, but Roan handed it to her with a flourishing bow and an actual, real-life wink, it made her want to vomit before she even put the stuff to her lips.  The last thing she needs in her life is an Alpha prince who thinks he’s God’s gift to Omegas everywhere.

And now she has an empty glass in one hand, a bread roll in the other, and no more alcohol to help her suffer through his presence.  Damn her.  

“I would’ve drunk that.”  The grounder is a Beta, Raven can tell; not that it matters these days.  They’re all half-drunk and half-dead, so who gives an eff anymore?  There’s a pile of dead Alphas, Betas, and Omegas inside the mountain ready to be burned tomorrow, Mountain Men, Arkers, and grounders alike.  

This grounder is leaning against a tree with a cocky smirk plastered across her face.  Her arms are crossed, and one hand is tucked up in her armpit, which leads Raven to think it’s probably injured.  She’s clad in overlarge Mount Weather guard coveralls that clearly belonged to someone at least two-and-a-half times her size.  The zipper on the front is unfastened most of the way down, exposing the mesh tape that binds her chest; even so, it’s beginning to slip, and one of her nipples is showing.

The effect is ridiculous, and not insignificantly hot.

“More where that came from.”  Raven twiddles the glass above her head; a little moonshine left at the bottom gets flung out into her hair.  Good; she could use some disinfectant.  The grounder snorts.

“I’m not going back out there.”  She sounds positively disgusted with the thought.  She’s got one ankle crossed over the other like some cowboy on a barstool, tapping her toes in the dirt.  It gives Raven a weird urge to tighten her bootlaces for her.  

Instead, she shrugs and turns to go back.

“Fair enough.  Catch you later.”  She has no attachment to this grounder, and if she’s going to make it through the rest of the night, she’s going to need another drink.  

She makes it only a few paces when the Beta calls out.

“Wait.”  Raven waits.  The girl bumps herself off the tree with her shoulder and takes a few strides forward.  When she moves, she drops her hand, and abruptly, Raven sees why she had it tucked under her arm.  The sight of it sends a funny feeling shooting through her back.  The shivers quickly solidify into curiosity, though, and she doesn’t bother disguising it from her face.  

The Beta stops only a foot from her, one hip cocked like she’s considering something.  Her gaze flickers from Raven’s knee to her face, and then to the bread and glass in each of Raven’s hands.  A smirk settles in her eyes, and then she reaches out with her big hand and takes the bread right from Raven’s grasp.

She shovels it in her mouth and speaks as she chews.

“Emori.”  Garbled as it is by the bread, it takes Raven a second to understand what she’s saying.  Then she sees the outstretched hand, her right, and realizes it’s the Beta’s name.  Raven shakes it.  Dimly, she registers that most of this should probably be astonishing.  

It isn’t.

“Raven.”  Their hands drop.  Emori is staring at her like she’s not quite sure what to make of her; Raven cocks an eyebrow.  “What?”  

“You reversed the turbines,” Emori tells her.  “You’re the mechanic.”  Raven stares.

“How the hell do you know that?” she demands.  She’s only vaguely curious, really, but it feels like the correct response.  Emori shrugs.

“The Floukru leader mentioned you when we ran into her,” she explains offhandedly.  She’s got an easy, swaggering set to her shoulders that Raven admires; she’s been rocking that look for years herself.  “John told me what you did.”  Raven’s starting to think it’s a good thing she threw out that moonshine, after all.  Her head feels a little fuzzy.

“John, who’s — wait, _Murphy?”_ she sputters.  “You’re her — you’re the one Murphy ran away with!”  She registers as she’s saying it that this is a surprise to only one of them, and that there’s no need to shout it to the treetops, but she feels the need to all the same.  This is too funny to be real.  

That cocky grin is back on Emori’s face, though there’s something frozen in her expression Raven can’t quite catch.  

“Ran _out_ with is more accurate,” she smirks.  “Though I wouldn’t take running away off the table.”  She looks too many combinations of confident, sad, and overeager, and Raven decides that she’s too pretty in that jumpsuit to be any of it.  

Okay, so maybe she’s a little drunk.  Whatever.  

“You should come back out there with me,” she tells Emori frankly, “and kick a little sense into Murphy.  It would be a good idea.  God knows it would go to his head, though; you’ve got a face tattoo, and I think that’s just too powerful for him.”  Emori throws her head back on a genuine laugh.  

“Nah,” she declines again, chuckling.  “He doesn’t need that.”  Raven shakes her head; somehow, this has become a point that it feels critical to argue.  Maybe it’s because she still can’t get that image of Emori as a cowboy out of her head, and that feels a little too fun to let go. 

“He _does,”_ she insists, and it’s with a little more sobriety than before.  John Murphy shot her in the spine, but Clarke killed Finn and Bellamy hanged Murphy and Murphy hanged Bellamy and if any of them are keeping count, they might as well give this world up as a lost cause.  “Seriously, you should do it.  Come with us, that is.  We’re going to the sea tomorrow, Murphy and Harper and Monty and I.  Probably other people too.”  She doesn’t quite know when she transitioned from talking about the campfire to talking about the Floukru, but it happened somewhere Raven’s not going to bother to track.  She also doesn’t know when they all decided this, but apparently it’s happening.  

An odd shadow crosses over Emori’s face.

“They’re letting you join them?” she asks, and there’s something cold in her voice for the first time.  Raven stares quizzically.

“What do you mean let?”  There’s a burning in the back of her brain that tells her she should be clueing in to something, but there’s a little too much alcohol in there for her to do it fast enough. Emori rolls her eyes.

“Your — ”  She indicates Raven’s knee.  “You’re fucked up.”  A little irritated, Raven raises an eyebrow.  If it were anyone else, _Clarke,_ god forbid, she would take immediate offense, but Emori makes it impossible.  She doesn’t know quite why that is.

“Yeah.  My leg is fucked up, your hand is fucked up.  Nobody cares,” she grunts.  She’s already half-turning to leave again.

Emori snorts.

“They do.”  

“Who’s they?”  

“The Trikru.  The clans.  Frikdreina are forbidden in Polis.  We’re a stain on the bloodline.”  The words coming out of Emori’s mouth are, for the first time, ugly.  She spits them out like something disgusting she’s swallowed by mistake.   _Or Roan’s moonshine,_ Raven thinks.  

“Your bloodline would be hot.”  Raven’s not sure where this is coming from; she’s not into this girl.  At least, not in a way that would lead her to do anything about it.  There’s too much going on here, too much Luna and Murphy, for one thing, but something tells Raven that Emori is going to be worth having around.  She’s determined to convince her of that.  “Anyway, if Murphy’s part of it, you’ll have to fight for the honor of who stains it the most.  So fuck the Trikru and come with us.  Floukru doesn’t care as long as you contribute.  Can you do anything?”  Emori gives her a patronizing look.  They’re staring each other down, glaring a little.  Emori’s face is hardened, but something tells Raven that she’s won.  

“I’m a mechanic,” she grants after a moment.  Raven stares, then blinks.  

“Well, color me an idiot,” she says finally.  “Let’s get you drunk.”  

* * *

Bellamy can’t see Clarke anywhere.

The chaos of the group gathered around the fire is giving the delinquents a run for their money.  It’s an odd mix of triumph and despair, considering what their victory has cost them.  In their muddled confusion and relief, everyone seems to be making friends with people they would never normally approach.  From where he’s standing, he can see Harper hanging on Monty’s arm, which in and of itself isn’t odd, but they’re talking animatedly with Raven and Murphy of all people, who in turn have an unfamiliar grounder with them.  

War certainly makes for strange bedfellows.  

That much is evidenced by the presence of Echo, who Bellamy is currently making his way back toward clutching food.  He left her sitting up leaning against a log while he went to go get it, not trusting her ability to stand long enough to wait in line with him.  He’s a little surprised to find her still there when he returns.  She’s hard for him to read; she seems skittish around him, though something about the set of her shoulders and the flash of her eyes tells him that she’s usually much less so.  The mountain has undoubtedly done some damage.  He thinks it’s partially his fault, too.  His presence seems to unsettle her, and he gets the feeling that she’s surprised at herself for the way that she’s responding to him so openly.  

“Feeling dizzy?” he asks as he maneuvers himself down to sit next to her.  He’s noted the way she’s staring a little blankly, as though she can’t quite get her eyes to focus right.  Mutely, she nods.  He’s not surprised; she’s lost a lot of blood in the past few days, and eaten nothing in the meantime.  “This should help.”  He’s got a bowl of soup and some bread, which seem to be standard fare for traveling grounders.  He’s also procured a cup of what he’s been told is goat’s milk mixed with spices and warmed over the fire.  The thought nauseates him a little, but the Beta serving it informed him that it’s a cultural tradition, a healing drink intended to help injured warriors regain their strength.

She takes it cautiously.  

“Thank you.”  She wraps her fingers around the mug, soaking in its warmth.  Her hands are slender and strong.  Bellamy notes the placement of the calluses on her fingertips and realizes she is likely adept with a weapon — not a sword, nor a gun, but perhaps a bow.  Her knuckles are worn, and seeing them, he tries to place her age.  She’s probably a little older than he is, he decides, but not much.  She and Anya look about the same age.  

He notices, too, that she bears no mating mark on her neck.  Briefly, Bellamy wonders how it is that an Omega of such strength and beauty remains unmated so late.  He pushes the curiosity away; it is her business, and not his right to pry, as much as he would like to know.  

He transfers his attention back to her face, and she looks away with a light blush as he catches her staring at his neck.  Apparently he's not the only one who's curious.  

“Are you a long way from home?”  He finds himself asking it in lieu of the deeper question he burns to know the answer to: how it is that she’s the only one here with no family to greet her.  This feels like a safer question to ask.  

Her hands shake, and the cup of milk threatens to spill.  Bellamy leans over and covers her hand with his own to steady its shaking; she is strong, but her hands are little under his.  The cup is hot beneath their fingertips.  

Echo’s eyes find his, and he sees that she is hesitant, and prideful, and wants him, too.  

“I will be,” she murmurs, and he leaves it at that.  He’s distracted by the magnitude of awareness in the air between them, pushing and pulling and crushing them in.  

A shiver wracks her, and he frowns concernedly.  As malnourished and weakened with blood loss as she is, his jacket isn’t enough.  He wants to hold her, wants to press heat back into her bones until she’s warm and full of life.  Already, he’s catching glimpses of who she is behind the pain and exhaustion, flashes of determination and resilience and selfishness and a loneliness so deep he feels the ache in his own lungs.    

She anticipates his need before he can give voice to it.  Perhaps it’s the surge of protectiveness in his Alpha scent; maybe she can sense his discomfort, or perhaps she’s only cold, but Echo pulls his hand from under his and sets the cup of milk down.  A hand on his knee for balance as she rises briefly, and she moves gingerly through their shared space.  Then she lowers herself back to the ground between his legs, and a nudge in her scent prompts Bellamy to ease his arms around her and guide her back against his chest.  

A spark goes through him at the contact.  None of their skin is even touching, but the weight of Echo on his chest makes his lungs surge and his heartbeat stutter.  His fingers tremble where his hands are braced on her ribs and hip, and he feels her breath quicken in time with his.  Up close, her scent is heavy and hot in his nose, and Bellamy has to close his eyes in order to steady himself.  Unable to help himself, he nuzzles into her neck through her hair; her scent makes him dizzy.  With a hitch of her breath, she leans back into him.  From the way her grip on his knee tightens, she’s just as powerfully affected as he is.  

Fierce joy rushes through him when he sees how receptive she is to his touch; suddenly, there is something rising with him, strong and insistent.  He understands, quite suddenly and completely, how it is that Clarke fell so hard and so fast for a stranger who in a matter of days will be her mate.  This is what Octavia meant, he knows; the reason the Skaikru have been so out of touch with the ground.  He can’t imagine feeling something this fiercely, this deeply, in the blank and strangled air of space.  There wouldn’t be so many examples of it right in front of him if there weren’t some truth to it, and if there is truth to it, why not for him?

“You know,” she says on a breathless little chuckle when the tingling in his belly has settled to a simmer.  “I was surprised when you came back for us.  I did not believe I would ever see you again after you left that room.”  Frowning a little, Bellamy slides a hand over her belly.  

“You didn’t believe that I would come back for you?”  He knows enough not to be offended; of course she wouldn’t have believed him.  Still, freeing her was always such a focus, so important to him even with everything else they were doing, that it seems odd to him to imagine it not occurring.  

“Not really.”  Echo shakes her head against him with a quiet laugh.  Then she draws a breath, and almost whispers, “But I wanted to.”  Her fingers twitch a bit as she admits it. Bellamy breathes deeply, and keeps his eyes closed to bask in that confession.  He curls his fingers in a little harder around her hipbone to let her know he’s heard.  The subtle arched press of her back into his chest tells him that she knows.  

For a long time, they sit like that, silent, drinking each other in, feeling each other breathe.  Every breath he takes draws her scent deeper into his lungs.  It lingers there and settles, curling into his blood and skin and winding him up, every atom of him brushed with an atom of her.  Echo smells like ice and woods and flowers; sharp, cold, and sweet. He wonders what he smells like to her, if he smells safe and like the earth, or if too much starlight and ozone still linger on his skin.  Though he’s never seen it, Bellamy imagines snow, sees it dusted on Echo’s shoulders and in the ends of her hair.  He wonders if she would shake it off, and then, in a quieter, deeper place, wonders if he can shake the way she’s settled in his bones.  He thinks they’d have to drill to the marrow.

“Where will you go, after?”  Echo asks it as a log settles with a crunch of glowing embers.  The motion sends sparks drifting upwards into the cool air.  

Bellamy rests his chin on her shoulder and considers.  The question, he knows, is her way of asking more than one thing.

“Luna has offered to take in defectors,” he says contemplatively.  “I think many of my people will go.”  Echo turns enough that she can see him; her eyes dart between his face and his chest.  It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking.

“And you?” she prompts quietly.

“I’ve thought about it,” Bellamy admits.  It’s true; the past eight hours have yielded a lot to think about.  He has little desire to return to Camp Jaha, especially if a lot of his friends won’t be there.  There are too many power struggles, too much ignorance; too much progress yet to be made.  He thinks he’d like something a little more settled. Bellamy isn’t old, not by a long shot, but after the tumultuous start they’ve had on Earth, he likes the idea of some stability.  Yet he’s not sure he would feel comfortable among the Trikru, either.  Octavia fits right in with their warriors and their traditions, but Bellamy wants something a little calmer.  The Floukru sound like a good compromise.  

“What will you do?”  He asks it realizing he’s zoned out for a moment.  The lines of Echo’s face grow quickly shadowed; she turns back around in his arms.  

“I do not know,” she says after a long moment.  Her voice is even, but Bellamy thinks he detects a biting edge that hints at suppressed tears.  Whether they’re of grief or frustration, he doesn’t know.  “In Azgeda, I am . . . I was part of the royal court.  Not one of the family, but important.”  She draws breath, and Bellamy waits, but after a moment, he realizes that she doesn’t mean to continue.  

“You can’t go home to them?”  He’s having trouble disguising his curiosity, though he knows it’s probably pushing her further than she would ordinarily like.  Something gives him the feeling that this woman, when well-fed, is catastrophically stubborn.  

Echo makes a harsh, derisive sound in the back of her throat.  

“They will not allow it,” she says bluntly, and makes no attempt to disguise her contempt.  “The nature of my occupation . . . it is my responsibility to move through foreign lands without detection.  I was captured; it was my fault for being careless.  I failed Azgeda in my duty despite my loyalty.  They are right to cast me out."  The bitterness in her voice belies her words; if she were a less stoic woman, Bellamy thinks she would probably cry.  The words sting.  The idea that her people would cast her out when she has been so loyal makes him grit his teeth.  

The back of Echo’s head is rigid and tense, like she’s watching something.  Following what he’s fairly certain is her line of sight, Bellamy looks across the fire.  Prince Roan of Azgeda is seated there, talking to a young Omega from Louwoda Kliron Kru.  As Bellamy stares, the other Alpha looks up.  When he sees the two of them watching, he offers only a blank stare, and then turns back to the Omega with a too-animated grin.  

Bellamy can hear Echo grinding her teeth.

“For nineteen years I have served his family, and he pays no more attention to me than if I were a Beta servant in the Hall of Sacred Spirits,” she laments spitefully.  “We grew up together, Roan and I, in the Hall and on the training grounds.  I bested him at archery when we were eleven years old; he led me to my Guardian when I presented, helped me choose . . . and they cast me out not just because I failed in my loyalty, but because that which they would lower me to is a position of which I am still unworthy.”  There her voice breaks, and Bellamy ensnares her waist as she controls herself with a little hiccup.  There are so many things he wants to ask about, so much of her world and her culture and _her_ that he wants to know, but those are less pressing than her discomfort.  He doesn’t smother her with pheromones or his embrace, sensing that to do so would lead her to shut down, but only makes himself available, opening his body so she can find the comfort that she needs.  

“What is it that they think you’re not worthy of?” he growls out when she has controlled her breathing.  “Surely you can prove yourself — ”  Echo reacts to that with a shuddering breath.

“Oh, Roan is being kind to me,” she says dryly, and Bellamy frowns a little at that.  “He has only made it clear that I am not welcome to return home because he knows what would await me if I did.  His mother, Queen Nia, would be less forgiving of my sins.  Anyone in disgrace would be demoted to play the role of servant, but still not I.  I was useful to her as her spy, but she continues to ignore Heda’s ways.  If not her warriors and her spies, _Haiplana_ only tolerates Omegas who will bear her kingdom young, and I cannot — they will not . . . I have no place among them,” Echo finishes with a fumble that betrays the emotions Bellamy can sense crowding beneath her skin.  She holds her chin high, her jaw tight and proud, and at last he understands.  

“That’s bullshit.”  Bellamy is proud of how evenly he is able to force the words out.  Against his chest, he can feel Echo’s shoulders tense with surprise.  

“What?”  He’s taken her so aback that shock hangs in her voice.  

“It’s bullshit,” he repeats, finding that it is easier to keep his tone light knowing that Roan is watching.  He resists the urge to run his hand down Echo’s arm beneath the other Alpha’s gaze.  “That they wouldn’t want you because of that.  You deserve better than that in return for your loyalty."  He doesn’t let any ounce of his emotions slip through, not wanting to complicate hers when they are already so stirred up.  He also purposefully hasn’t reacted to her admission of her job.  Who cares if she’s a spy for a precariously allied nation? Bellamy’s a criminal.  Clarke just murdered almost three hundred people.  Shit's relative.  “You know,” he adds before he can think too hard about it, “you could defect, too. You’re an Omega; Heda would probably grant you amnesty.”  

Echo coughs out a little laugh.

“I have spied upon too many of the Trikru to live amongst them,” she says with a glimmer of dull amusement.  “They would not tolerate my presence well.”  Bellamy shifts his weight back against the log.

“I meant the Floukru,” he says, and feels her body go still against him.  “Raven and Harper are going, and I think Murphy, too.  I know they’d like to have you there, and so would I.”  He’s taken Octavia’s influence and run with it.  He wants this woman with an intensity that frightens him.  With the scent of the ground surrounding him and the stars farther out of reach than they've ever felt, he states the last part like the simple fact it is and waits for her to respond.

Echo leans away so completely that he can see her entire face.  It’s lined with shock and incredulity, and a tremble that he’s pretty sure is a tiny measure of unwilling desire.  

“I told you, I am infertile,” she negates quickly; firmly, as if by trodding on him she’ll erase any reason she has for hope before it has time to bloom.  “You do not want me; I am of no use to you.”  Bellamy lifts his hands to grasp at her face.  For the first time, he is rough with her, and he sees a wave of emotions pass through her eyes at the brusque touch, not the least of them desire.  

“I was not aware that the capability of bearing children was a prerequisite for being loved,” he says shortly, and watches her astonishment bloom. 

“You do not care that I cannot give you pups?” she whispers disbelievingly.  Her face blazes with relief and joy.  Bellamy presses his fingers in harder and lets his pinkies trace her skin.  The shells of her ears are soft; he wants to pull them between his lips and tug them with his teeth.  He wants to do that other places, too.  Her body is lean and strong, and she is closed-off, and he wants to open her to him.  He wants to unzip his jacket on her and drag his lips against her collarbones, between her breasts; over the planes of her stomach, and down.  He wants to hear the sounds she would make, feel her fingers tangled in his hair as he coaxes pleasure from her bones.

It fills his heart with elation to realize that someday, maybe he can.  

“I raised my little sister illegally from birth,” he says with a snort in place of all the other words he’s longing to let loose on her.  “I’ve done my life’s duty as a father.”  It’s not necessarily true; he wouldn’t object to having his own children, but it’s less important to him than it once might have been.  Bellamy is a giver, he has realized; he has love and safety and happiness to share. It doesn’t matter whether he shares it with children or a mate or both as long as he doesn’t have to bear the weight of joy alone.  

He dips his head, Echo bends up to meet up to meet him, and they melt against each other like ice into water in the firelight.  

* * *

The night is young.

Dinner is over, and the festivities have begun.  They will last, Anya tells her, a good few hours before the exhilaration and relief die down.  The warriors will be honored with crowns and flowers; mates will bow to one another and rejoice.  They will dance, barefoot in the moonlight, and ceremonial tributes will be paid to those who fought for the freedom of their people.  Tomorrow, they will honor the dead and give them their rites, and there will be room for mourning, but tonight is a night of celebration.  Pushing aside her abject horror for relief, Clarke thinks they deserve it.

What has been done here today is awful, but necessary, and Clarke thinks that there might even be room for triumph.

“Doesn’t she ever smile?” Clarke asks quietly over the rim of her wine glass.  Craning her neck, Anya follows her gaze to where Lexa is standing at the edges of the crowd, hands folded before her, serene and composed as always.  

“Not in four summers.”  It’s specific.  Clarke eyes her questioningly.

“What — ?”

“It is not my story to tell,” Anya says mildly.  “Though I think that in time, if you ask, she may tell you the story herself.”  Clarke looks to her in surprise.

"You do?”  Anya nods.

“Leksa trusted you to uphold your promise to the Kongeda,” she divulges.  “Heda does not have the freedom to show emotion, but for what it is worth, she would not have agreed to this alliance if she did not have faith in you.  Not only as a leader, but as yourself.  I am not sure you understand how rare that is.”  Delicately, she takes another sip of wine.  Clarke is momentarily distracted by the way her lips wrap around the rim of the glass; the movement of her throat as she drinks.  Shaking herself to rid her head of the fuzzy warmth obscuring her thought processes, Clarke considers that idea more deeply.

“You mean she could think of me as a friend,” she realizes slowly.  Between the heat-brain, the wine, and the distractingly cloying level of Anya’s Alpha scent, her mind is running a little behind her mouth.  Anya slow blinks at her with an amused smile.

“Heda doesn’t have friends,” she negates with a slight shake of her head.  There’s a drop of wine lingering on the corner of her lips.

“But _Lexa_ does,” Clarke counters pointedly.  Enough time in Anya’s company has taught her that an essential part of Trikru communication is reading between the lines — especially when regarding the Kongeda.  Half of all critical information seems to go unsaid.  

Anya’s lips twitch.

“Perhaps,” she grants.  “I am the one who taught her everything she knows, after all.”  There is an edge of cockiness to her voice that Clarke finds distractingly appealing.  It’s not enough, however, to divert her attention from another realization she’s been coming to this evening.

“You and Echo speak the same way,” she muses.  She’s been watching Bellamy with Echo at the fire, and it’s obvious that they’re going to be mates.  She’s glad; it’s good to see Bellamy let himself be happy for once.  “I mean, your accent is different, but the emphasis is similar.  Neither of you use contractions either, and you say ‘e’ the same way she does.”  Anya, she sees, is watching them too.  

“My mother was from Azgeda,” she says after a minute during which Clarke wonders if she’s going to respond at all.  It’s not like it was a question, after all.  “My father was a Beta who grew up in Tondisi; she was an Omega.  They met when he went on a scouting mission.  Azgeda . . . does not treat their Omegas well,” she says with a slight edge to her voice.  “I believe you know what I mean.  She chose to run away, back to Tondisi with him.  They were safe for years, but then Azgeda threatened war.  Eventually they were killed.  It is why I fought for Heda so hard during the war against Azgeda.  I have . . . always believed that Omegas should be treated well, and I passed that belief to her.”  This new insight into Anya’s family is critical, and throws Clarke for a loop, but now doesn’t feel like the moment to discuss it.  There’s something burning in Anya’s gaze that tells her grief is not where her mind is resting.  

“I think you know _exactly_ how to treat an Omega,” Clarke responds pointedly, and Anya’s eyes grow heavier on her skin.  Then, abruptly, something overcomes her; her eyes remain dark but flicker nervously, and Clarke grasps her hand to nuzzle soothingly at her wrist.  “What is it?” she coaxes, letting herself croon a little with it.  Anya’s nervousness around her is endearing, but Clarke thinks they should be beginning to overcome it by now.  

Anya opens and closes her mouth before she composes herself to reply.  

“Now that we are safe and the mountain has been defeated, we have time,” she says hesitantly.  Her thumb trace the veins in Clarke’s wrist tenderly as she speaks. “There has been something . . . building between us since the moment that we met.  I know that we have admitted as much to each other, but it is not the same.  Before, we were embroiled in war, and there was no time to consider such things as bonding.  But here . . .”  She trails off and then pauses to draw a deep breath.  “We are safe now,” she reiterates, continuing, “and there is time, should we wish to learn each other more deeply — I can take the time to prove my strength to you and my — my devotion,” she chokes out. Instinctively, Clarke brings up a hand to smooth across her shoulders.  At her very touch, Anya seems to relax; she inhales a deep breath.  “I would be a good mate for you,” she says, shakily but firmly, and her eyes betray her anxious eagerness.  “I have not known another Omega since my mate died seven summers ago, and I am strong.  I — I can promise you loyalty, and protection, and — and love.  We have time, and freedom, and if you would have me, I . . . to bond with you would be the greatest privilege of my life,” she finishes on a shaky whisper.  Clarke studies her for a moment, the weight of the confession hot and heavy in her heart.  

Then, without a word, she leans up on her toes and presses her mouth softly, gently, to Anya’s lips.  The shaky, stunned inhale that her Alpha gives only makes her want to press in deeper until boundaries of armor and clothes and skin are broken and their souls are one.  She loses herself in the kiss, letting their tongues curl together and feeling the rush of pleasure it sends through her.  Anya’s kisses are soft, deep; Clarke never knew that kissing someone could feel so good.  When at last they break apart, Clarke’s chest is heaving, but she cradles Anya’s jaw in her hands until she meets her gaze.

“Anya kom Trikru,” she murmurs, “I would treasure the honor of being your mate.”  At that, Anya loses her breath completely.  Her eyes have gone wide.  Her stunned uncertainty makes Clarke’s heart ache.

“You — you would want me?” she says halting in a voice that’s hardly more than a whisper.  “To bond with me?”  Clarke’s lips tremble like Anya’s hands cupping her face as her eyes dart back and forth between her Alpha’s.  The Skaikru, the Kongeda, the mountain, the defectors; all fall away as she looks into the eyes of the woman who will be her mate.  

“I have known you but a few months,” Clarke breathes out, “and yet I know for absolute certain that you are the one person I’m going to love for the rest of my life.”  Before she can even breathe again, Anya is crushing her into her arms and kissing her so deeply that Clarke’s knees go weak.  

 _“Hei, Onya!  Set yu dison souna op!”_  They are jolted rudely apart from their nuzzling by the shout, and the abrupt transition from lovestruck back to drunken festivities forces a giggle from Clarke’s lips.  Disappointed though she is at being interrupted, Anya too can’t contain a rueful grin.  The call comes from Callum, already among the dancers swaying drunkenly with Jean.  Chuckling a little at the sight of them, Clarke takes a moment to mentally translate through her heat fog, and then listens for the song he wants them to hear.  There are no words that she can pick out, nor any string instruments like last night at Tondisi, but there’s a rolling drum beat.  As she listens, Clarke feels the rhythm catch in her brain, and then, deep and surging, snag somewhere lower down.  

She curls her palm around the nape of Anya’s neck and lets her eyes darken.  

“Dance with me, Alpha?” she murmurs lowly.  She tries to infuse as much smoldering Omega persuasion into her voice as she can.  A rush of smoky Alpha scent lets her know that she’s successful.  

Anya’s hands grip her hips tightly enough to bruise.  

“It would be my honor, _ai Treja.”_  Anya’s whisper into her hair sends a shiver up her spine.  

Clarke’s pulse point is throbbing as Anya presses against her back and rolls her hips.  The presence of her Alpha, already distracting, is compounded by the fact that they almost lost each other today.  Clarke doesn’t need the image of Anya strapped to the table to call up the jolt of fear the memory brings.  Her Alpha bore the terror of it so well, tried so hard not to show anything but stoicism and dignity.  Remembering it, knowing that Anya could have died today, kicks Clarke’s protective instincts into overdrive.  The snarling, vicious creature that ripped itself from her chest earlier in defense of her people has settled to a victorious purr, but it is determined to keep Anya close and in the unwavering safety of its grasp.  It roars with triumph as Clarke melts in relief; she has done her duty to defend her Alpha, her people, and her home.  They will not have to fear the mountain again.

They are going to get to go _home._  Tomorrow, after the pyres burn and all the dealings with the Council have been done, the armies and the volunteers will disband. Ambassadors will return to their clans, defectors will begin their lives with their new people; Heda and her guards will return to Polis, and Clarke will go home.

With Anya.  

The thought is almost too overwhelming to consider.  After all they’ve been through, the wars and the treaties and the murders and the fear, the thought of peace is nearly too much for Clarke to bear.  It has been so long since she has known any semblance of respite from worry, from hunger, or from war.  She can’t think of the last time she was able to simply _live_ without fear of what might happen next.  It seems impossible that everything they have experienced up until now has been leading to that.  She and Anya met while at war with one another, and they have been working tirelessly toward this moment ever since, not even understanding until recently that they were doing so for the prospect of experiencing peace together.  

Clarke is going to have a home, with _Anya,_ among the trees and the mountains and the clean air and smell of the earth.  She is going to live with sunlight on her skin and the sound of raindrops on the roof.  She is going to know happiness, even if she has to build it from the ground up with her bare hands.  She has worked too hard, suffered too much, to not reap what she has sowed.  

Moreover, the sudden lifting of their fears, the sense of safety and freedom, combined with Anya’s touch and voice and scent, has shoved Clarke right up to the precipice of her heat.  

It will hit her within the next twenty-four hours; Clarke can sense it, even having never experienced one before.  There are embers in her belly, and her blood itches.  Her body cramps at odd intervals, soothed only by Anya’s touch and scent.  Her head is swimming, her eyes a little blurry, and her skin tremors with shocks of lightning that flicker up and down her tendons and settle in her veins.  More than once in the past half hour, she has caught herself purring.

It smolders deep within her belly as they dance together, pushed near the fire in the center of the crowd.  The flames throw almost unbearable heat onto her bare ankles that matches the burning in her heart.  Anya holds her hips firmly, their bodies pressed so tightly together that Clarke can feel every inch of her Alpha behind her.  In the heat of the fires, they have stripped their jackets off, leaving them in thin shirts that scarcely cover their bindings.  Clarke’s hair is damp, their bodies curled together in a press of sweat and need.  Distantly, she thinks she can sense Abby’s mildly disapproving eyes upon her, but they are far from the only ones in such a state.  The songs played last night in Tondisi may have been love songs, but this — this music can only be described as _filthy._

It’s nothing like the tame, prudish old pop songs played on the Ark, and with her Alpha’s pulse racing through her veins and the fire bringing sweat to her golden skin, Clarke sheds the last of the Ark and the Skaikru from her being and lets the ground fill her soul.  

The drumbeats pound, swelling their rhythm into Clarke’s ears and blood and heart until it’s beating in time.  Anya’s breasts press against her back; her fingertips dig bruises into her hipbones.  They roll with the beat, and Clarke lets herself go.  She drops her head back onto Anya’s shoulder, exposing her neck for the Alpha to kiss hungrily.  She rolls her hips back, feels her ass grind against Anya’s cock; feels the moan at the back of her own throat, and lets it fall from her lips.  

Her feet are bare in the hot dirt, her bindings soaked with sweat.  There are warrior’s braids in her hair and warpaint on her eyes.  The stomping of their feet and undulating of their bodies is mirrored in everyone around them, and as Anya croons dark promises in her ear in Trigedasleng, Clarke finds that she understands every word.  Broad, tattooed shoulders encase her own; Anya’s pheromones are sharp and primal and Alpha, and they are echoed from every corner by everyone else who has taken their mate in their arms. Everything around Clarke is dark and hot and earth and sex.

This is _Trikru,_ and so is she.  After eighteen years of living among a people who are her own and yet not her own, Clarke can finally embrace a new life.  She has drums and dancing and fires and forests and legends.  Trigedasleng is rough and pleasing to her ears.  She and Octavia have found a home, the clans are freed of the scourge of the mountain, and after ninety-seven years, the people of the Ark are back on the earth where their people were born.  

These are her people now, and Clarke thinks they are all deserving of a little joy.  

* * *

Anya wakes in the thin darkness before dawn to the soft crunch of embers settling beneath a log.  Eyes flickering open, she tenses automatically.  In a moment, though, she registers the sound for what it is and relaxes back into the furs.  

She quickly finds that she is awake for good, too much rushing through her mind and heart.  She is well used to sleeping in the open air, comfortable with it and unafraid of the dark, but with Clarke in her arms, she is on alert for the slightest hint of danger.  She is curled protectively around her Omega, and the scent and warmth of Clarke is too overpowering to allow for deeper sleep.

A number of them are asleep in the warm dark haze around the dying embers of the fires.  Most of them, by Anya’s nose, are Omegas.  With so few tents and several hundred people, children and the injured are sleeping under shelter, and the rest are spread out on the ground across the camp.  The Omegas, by birthright, have been allowed to take the warmest places nearest to the fires.  

Clarke’s Omega-bonded siblings are all in the vicinity.  Nearby, Anya can see one of them — a blonde member of the Hundred — curled up with the Beta boy who, she understands, allowed them to reverse the air flow in the mountain.  Reivon and Murfi are also close by, sandwiching between them a Beta whose clan Anya can’t identify.  The sight causes a flicker of amusement; from what Clarke has told her, the two Omegas were once mortal enemies.  She can’t see Luna, but something tells her that her friend isn’t too far from where Reivon lies.  

On the other side of the fire, the Azgedan spy sleeps heavily in the boy Bellomi’s arms.  Anya can’t restrain a small smile at the sight of them.  Skaikru Alpha though Bellomi is, he is kind and doting, and clearly not possessing of the same entitled attitude as the rest of his clan.  It is clear that he and the spy share a deep and immediate connection. Azgeda, especially their Omegas, are notoriously standoffish.  That Echo feels safe like this, sleeping soundly with her nose tucked into the crook of Bellomi’s neck, speaks to the depth and the enormity of the trust she has in him.

Anya can relate.  

Clarke is asleep with her head pillowed on Anya’s arm.  The furs spread over and under them are heavy and warm; beneath them, both of them have shucked their coats off and sleep only in their bindings.  Clarke’s skin is hot and damp with sweat and heat and the streaked remains of her warpaint.  Her back sticks to Anya’s chest where they touch, and Anya knows they will need a bath before too long.  There is a stream near her home; it will be cold, but the last breath of summer is warm enough to bear it one more time.  

She can’t wait to share her home with Clarke. 

Idly, brushing her fingers up and down Clarke’s ribs beneath the furs, Anya wonders what her Omega will think of her village.  It is tucked away in a valley where the curve of the mountains begins.  The forest surrounds it and gives way to fields, small rolling pastures of wildflowers that seep back into aspens on the other side.  The people there are farmers, warriors, and in its sheltered valley, there are more children there than most.  Clarke will have plenty of opportunities as a healer if it is what she chooses to do. Already healthier than when she and Anya escaped the mountain, she will grow sun-kissed and strong with clean air and fresh food and a new way of life.

Anya hasn’t been home in two months.  A few weeks ago, she thought she would never live to go home at all.  It will be good to see her cottage again, the home and furniture and garden that she built with her bare hands.  She poured her heart and soul into the home she made for herself, and she’s excited to share it with Clarke.  Things have changed — Tris will no longer be there, for one, and it makes Anya’s heart hurt with the thought of her young _seken._  It will be the first time in nearly four years that the little girl’s voice and giggles will not echo off the walls.  Her vibrant spirit filled the empty house, and now that she’s gone, Anya would dread her return but for the fact that she will not be alone.

She’s also not sure that they didn’t leave the cottage an utter disaster.  They left in a terrible hurry for Polis when they saw the drop ship land.  Tris pulled on her boots as they were climbing onto the horse, Anya recalls with a nostalgic smile.  They were eating when it happened; they might have left their dishes in the sink.  She’s pretty sure there are clothes and weapons still scattered on the floor.  It would be the case anyway, she thinks in amusement: seasoned warrior though she is, Anya has never been very organized.  

She knows that Clarke won’t mind.  Her presence will ease the sting of it a little.  It will be painful to return to a house with such blatant reminders of Tris.  The little girl’s possessions scattered about will make it feel as though she has merely stepped out of the room.  But life on Earth can be short, and hard, and requires sacrifice; Tris knew that. Anya taught her that.  

She taught Lexa that, too.  Knowing it doesn’t dissipate the pain of loss any sooner, but it changes how one approaches it.  Losing Costia broke Lexa, she knows; she witnessed the effects of it firsthand.  It was the only thing to ever break Lexa’s stoic and resilient facade, the mask that Anya taught her to put on.  In order to prepare Lexa to be Heda, Anya had to break her, and remake her, and teach her everything that was counterintuitive to the quiet, gentle little girl who came to her when she was so small.  Lexa has not broken since Costia died, and Anya knows that she never will again.

Anya knows what’s underneath.  Lexa will not waver; she will be the sturdy and unbroken Heda that her people need.  But beneath it all, hidden somewhere deep enough that Lexa will never be tempted to unlock it, Lexa is that same little girl who Anya taught to wield a sword.  Underneath, Lexa is gentle, and loving, and feels more deeply than anyone could ever know, could ever guess.  The best parts of Lexa are the things Anya never taught her.  They are the things that make her Heda, that make her the woman who loved Costia.  Anya taught Lexa everything she knows, but she didn’t teach her wisdom, or honor, or her sense of self-sacrifice.  Those things were already there.  

They were there in Tris, too, though still childish and buried deeper because Tris would never have needed them the way that Lexa does.  They are in Clarke, too.  The only difference, the only gift, is that Clarke does not have to be wise and gentle and loving alone.  Lexa’s loneliness is soul-deep, and brimming, and ageless.  She has known happiness once.  She will not love again, but she has loved.  That is more than any other Commander has ever done.  For her, that is enough.

For Anya, and for Clarke, it doesn’t have to be.  The depth of what Anya feels for Clarke is overwhelming, and she doesn’t think she could contain it if she had half of Lexa’s strength.  It is why, despite it all, Lexa did love Costia.  

Love, when it comes, comes with no regard for strength, or wisdom, or honor.  There is no resisting.  Anya can only humble herself before it and hope that her heart is strong enough to contain it all.  

Perhaps they have known each other long enough that it is silly, but Anya continues to be struck dumb by Clarke’s beauty.  She lives in quiet awe of it — Clarke’s shining hair and golden skin, her soft curves and strong hands; the bright, happy smile that flits across her face whenever Anya is near.  She is fierce, protective, kind, and stubborn.  Her heart and hands are open to every moment of anyone’s need for companionship and care.  More than that, she is determined, and self-reliant, and open to joy.  

Anya is in love with everything she is.  

Kissing Clarke breaks her wide open.  The feel of Clarke’s lips beneath hers cracks open Anya’s chest and spills out the messy hopes and loneliness that she has hidden for so long.  Part of her is unable to fathom that Clarke wants to be hers.  It seems too good to be true that this beautiful, loving, incredible Omega could want her with the same depth of need that consumes Anya as they lie together on the furs.  She has been so lonely in the past seven years, even with Lexa at her side.  Anya has wanted someone to be good to, someone to care for.  She has missed having an Omega to cherish, to love and provide for and to give happiness and pleasure to.

To share an Omega’s heat is a privilege and a gift, one that Anya has known only twice in her life.  Clarke’s first heat will likely be overwhelming, but Anya will be overwhelmed by it, too.  

But more than heats, more than a mate, Anya is looking forward to sharing a life with Clarke.  Visions fill her eyes of meals taken together under the sun and stars, strolls through the fields to the river to press their feet to the moss.  She will fill vases she has carved with wildflowers from the fields, and Clarke can paint them all.  They can dance in the square to the blues that have survived two hundred years, and breathe in summer air.  She can teach Clarke about the seasons and the way the constellations look from the ground.  

A few more hours, and their healing can begin.

* * *

The flames rise when the sky is pink and pale with dawn.  

There are two pyres, built from wood by a group of warriors who volunteered to construct them last night after dinner.  One holds the prisoners, grounder and Skaikru alike, who died in the dormitory and the harvest chamber.  The other holds the Maunon.  Three-hundred and eighteen bodies in all — so many lives, but a mere fraction, Clarke knows, of those lost to the mountain over the past fifty-six years.  

There are pups in the crowd who came with parents to greet rescued family members, and in the soft dawn light, they rush through the whispery and dew-drenched grass gathering herbs to lay upon the pyres.  Clarke watches them with an unsteady ache in her heart for Mira, Myka, and Jan.  Even with all who have been rescued, the siblings’ parents are not among them.  Her stomach clenches as the littlest ones approach, guided by their parents on chubby legs, and drop branches of laurel and sage and lemon balm on the shrouded bodies of their mountain-born age mates.  

Clarke hopes it’s the last time they have to give rites to children so young.  

When all has been assembled, Lexa steps up between the two pyres and motions for Clarke to join her.  

She wonders what Heda is going to say.  There isn’t much that is appropriate, Clarke thinks, to cover the enormity of what they have done.  What all of them have done.  An entire culture, evil in its actions but struggling to survive, died yesterday.  It seems fated, inevitable, but after all that has occurred on, under, and above this earth in the past century, Clarke realizes that it just as easily could have been any one of them.  The Ark, the clans, the Maunon; all rose from the ashes and evolved as they needed to in order to survive.  All she can hope is that the day has finally come that they can put survival behind them and set their sights on something more.  

Lexa seems to feel the magnitude of this day in the same way, for she simply hands Clarke a burning stick, lights the end of her own, and extends the branch to touch the pyre of the Maunon.  

 _“Yu gonplei ste odon.”_  Her words are echoed by the voices of the clans in the growing light.  The flame catches, and Clarke raises her chin along with her voice.

 _“Yu gonplei ste odon,”_ she echoes, and lights the edge of the pyre that holds their fallen.  She adds, more steadily, “May we meet again.”  Those gathered around them murmur it back; Lexa’s voice catches the words, and her lips are the last from which they fall.  

They step back, and the flames curl up toward the sky until their light is lost in the new dawn.  

There is the matter of Cage to attend to once the dead have been sent back to the earth.  It is unanimous among the clans and the Skaikru that the man should be put to death. He is put on the tree before the Council convenes.  It’s the first instance of such a death since Finn, but with Cage’s age and the enormity of his crimes, he will receive the full thousand cuts.  Anyone who wishes is granted one, and anyone who has lost someone to the mountain is offered as many cuts as loved ones they have lost.  

Clarke volunteers to watch the pups with a mother from Sangedakru while the execution takes place.  As much as she would love to take her personal revenge on Cage for the pain he has caused her people, it’s over.  She and Lexa pulled the lever that killed every last one of the Maunon; she figures she’s had sufficient revenge.  Instead, she sits with the Sangedakru Beta — a woman named June — and lets the children have free reign.  

There are eighteen of them, some from every clan with the exception of Azgeda.  Their ages, at Clarke’s best guess, range from newborn to about eight or ten.  The older ones — she’s noticed a few teenagers among the group — are out with the others at the tree.  These pups, though, are small, and chubby-limbed, and too young to do much but frolic about and enjoy themselves.  They clamber over her, enticing her to play with them; a few of the youngest crawl into her lap and burrow into her belly, enjoying her nurturing Omega scent.  

It’s the first tangible sign of hope Clarke has seen in a long time, and she can’t ignore the way her heart speeds up at the thought of how easily she could have it for herself.  It’s difficult not to imagine her own belly round and heavy with child.  Visions crowd her mind of rosy-cheeked pups with golden hair and honey eyes.  What is more, with the descent of peace upon them, there is no reason not to imagine it.  The thought makes the throbbing of her heat grow ever stronger.  

The Council convenes at noon.  

It’s largely unchanged from the group that decided on war plans two nights ago in Tondisi.  They are missing only Wick, lost to the missile, and Kane, who according to Abby is recovering well.  Typically, Anya tells Clarke, a Council of the Kongeda would include only Lexa, Gustus as her bodyguard, either Anya or Indra representing the Trikru, and the ambassadors of the eleven other clans.  However, part of the purpose of the meeting being to decide the fate of the Skaikru means that these are special circumstances, and in the face of that knowledge, no one can decide what to do.  

For obvious reasons, a representative of the Skaikru is needed, and as the acting chancellor of Camp Jaha, Abby is included among them.  However, they run into a slight snafu when Anya brings up the potential defectors among the Hundred.  As the Hundred were on the ground well in advance of the rest of the Ark and fought a separate war against the Trikru, they have their own demands to make and crimes to defend.  Many, as Bellamy points out, are deeply unwilling to go back under the ruling of the Skaikru after the way that they were treated on the Ark.  

The matter remains undecided when Bellamy and Clarke stubbornly declare each other the leader in response to queries of who will act as representative.  Abby also objects, stating that a large number of the Hundred are still underage and should remain her jurisdiction.  In the end, Lexa solves it by declaring the Hundred and the rest of the citizens of the Ark two separate entities, and calls up Bellamy as the leader of the former, Abby as the leader of the latter, and Clarke as the ambassador to both.  At this, some of the other ambassadors object that this many Skaikru makes the Council unfairly weighted, and demand more representatives of their own.  Still others point out that someone should be called forth to represent the mountain’s prisoners, as those who were captured and held in the harvest chamber might wish to have a say.

A number of arguments ensue at that, with Azgeda’s protests particularly loud.  Emotions and pheromones are running high, a child has burned her arm on one of the pyres and caused anxiety, it has been a while since everyone has eaten breakfast, and people are growing cranky.  Finally, Lexa is forced to step in.  Each ambassador will have a vote as usual, with Floukru and Trikru each getting two, as they represent the clans taking in defectors.  Not everyone is satisfied with this solution, and Roan is particular is significantly less thrilled, but Heda’s word is law, and everyone grudgingly agrees.  

Immediately, though, they find themselves facing another problem.  Unlike Tondisi, there is no building available, and no tent large enough to hold the meeting in.  As a result, the Council intends for negotiations to take place in the open air.  Not long after the pyres have settled to embers, however, the skies grow clouded and overcast, and it begins to rain.  

It’s not the first rainstorm that Clarke has seen, but it’s probably only the third, and the event of it feels wild and exciting.  It’s less so for the clans, who have a lifetime of experience with rain and little desire to remain out in it.  The injured and the young of the camp retire to the smaller tents first, followed by anyone else who can cram themselves in.  The Skaikru participants in the Council have no real objection to staying outside, but the grounders are grouchily opposed.  None of them, the Skaikru included, have any desire to go back inside the mountain, and so a good twenty minutes are spent trying to wrangle a space big enough for all of them.  There is one tent, belonging to Trishanakru, that is a little larger, and after a bit of territorial squabbling, Lexa shuts down any arguments and orders everyone inside.  

It’s a tight fit.  There are eighteen people crowded into a six-person storage tent, and to make matters worse, all of the food that has been brought in out of the rain is in there with them.  Clarke is jammed between Bellamy and Anya behind her and to her right, the Podakru ambassador on her left, and a pot of mashed potatoes between her feet.  Lexa, who would normally be on her throne, is barely visible at the mouth of the tent with Gustus on one side and Indra on the other.  Everyone has attempted to arrange themselves into some semblance of a circle for the sake of democracy and hearing everyone speak, but their success is marginal.  As a result, and with the rain pounding on the canvas roof, it is necessary to almost shout to be heard.

This Council session, Clarke sees, will be neither simple nor straightforward.  Entity of legend or not, she doesn’t envy Lexa her job of having to corral seventeen unwilling people into a diplomatic mood.  

“We have much to discuss.”  Lexa calls them all to order, voice raised to be heard over the drumming of the rain and the grouchy commentary of everyone jostling for a place to stand.  The last of the bickering dies down, and the attention shifts, everyone falling still.  “We have come together already to celebrate our new freedom and victory, to lay our enemies to rest, and to honor our dead.  Now we must turn to politics, and the logistics of the new world we are living in.  Two months ago, a ship fell out of the sky and brought with it a new people.  Needless to say, we did not begin on the best of terms.”  Sensing people’s agitation, Lexa pauses and waits for the movement to die down.  Once everyone is still, she continues louder than before.  

“However, circumstances have changed.  We are, for better or for worse, stuck with one another.  Now we must decide how to proceed.  Under the terms of the ceasefire, with the fall of the Maunon, the blood debt of the battle at the drop ship is repaid.  We must consider, however, that this war took place between the Trikru and the Hundred.  The rest of the Skaikru did not join their ranks until nearly a month later.  The Hundred of the Ark, up until the adjournment of this meeting, will be considered a separate entity. Bellomi Blake kom Skaikru,” Lexa addresses Bellamy directly, “as the representative of the Hundred, how do you suggest your people move forward?”

There is silence as everyone’s attention transfers to Bellamy.  Beside her, Clarke can feel his arm trembling.  He swallows hard twice before answering.  

“Heda,” he acknowledges in as quiet a voice as can be heard over the rain.  “A hundred and one of us were sent to the ground, which made a hundred and two once our friend Raven arrived, though a number of us were already dead by then.  Of those hundred and two, not including myself, my sister, or Clarke, there are forty-three of my people left.”

It’s the first time anyone has said the number out loud, and the recognition of it makes Clarke’s head spin.  Though she no longer considers herself Skaikru, she will always, in a way, feel like one of the Hundred.  Fifty-nine dead; the numbers could be so much worse, but even so, the recognition of how many they’ve lost is overwhelming.  

“Forty-three is awfully small to make a clan,” Bellamy continues.  There’s a new roughness in his voice, and breathing in his scent, Clarke knows that he’s feeling the same way she is.  “We’ve learned to survive here, Heda, but I know we’re all hoping for a little more than that.  Some of us will rejoin the rest of the Skaikru if they become a clan, but the rest will defect.  Ultimately, what we’ll do depends on whether Skaikru joins the Kongeda.  Since we’re being considered separately, you understand why we will wait to see whether it is better for us all to join you.”  It’s stated perfectly evenly and diplomatically, and entirely without looking at Abby.  Even with her mother halfway across the tent, Clarke can feel the pheromones between them bristle.  

“In that case,” Lexa responds with a nod of acknowledgment, ignoring the blatant pheromone cocktail, “we will have to decide.  The peace treaty stated that if Skaikru helped to bring those in the mountain to justice, they would have the opportunity to come before the Kongeda and present their case for becoming the thirteenth clan.  Assuming that we consider yesterday a victory, it is now time to make that decision.”  

“Wait a minute,” Abby interrupts, and Clarke closes her eyes with an inward groan.  Of all moments for her mother to be a stubborn Alpha, this is not it.  “What if we want to remain separate?  Not join.  With all due respect, Commander, this . . . Coalition . . . isn’t what we’re used to.”  There is an outbreak of discontented muttering at that; opening her eyes, Clarke exchanges a helpless glance with Bellamy.  At her side, Anya’s scent grows lightly irritated. 

Lexa’s eyes narrow. 

“You will get used to it.”  Heda’s tone brokers no argument; if Clarke didn’t know better, she would almost call it a growl.  “There is no survival without the Kongeda.  It took eighty-nine years for a line of Commanders to unite warring clans on the brink of starvation.  I will not have that progress decimated by the arrival of a minuscule group of, to be frank, utterly ignorant and incompetent strangers.  In any case,” she adds with dangerous finality when Abby’s mouth opens to argue, “you will not be presenting the Skaikru’s case.  Klark will.”  

An audible sound of surprise escapes Abby at that.  Glancing down at her warily, the Podakru ambassador sidles away from Clarke as much as he can.  The movement nudges him into Roan, who eyes him with poorly concealed derision.  

“Clarke is not our leader!” Abby protests.  “If the Kongeda will hear us, I am honored to present our case.  I am the acting Chancellor of my people — ”

“Klark is the ambassador to the Skaikru and the Hundred,” Lexa growls with the barest hint of impatience.  “At least until this meeting is adjourned, at which point she may take or disregard any position she wishes.  You and Bellomi Blake are the leaders of your respective peoples, and as neither of you has the authority to speak for both, Klark will do so for you.  You entrusted her negotiating skills with the lives of your people when you sent her to the mountain,” Lexa points out scathingly as Abby looks to protest.  “Is it because the prisoners in the mountain were expendable children and the rest of your clan are not that you protest now?”  There is something absolutely dangerous in Lexa’s entire being in this moment.  Her eyes flash, her figure rock solid and imposing.  Clarke can sense the enormity of the anger and frustration she is restraining at Abby’s disrespect.  

Around her, people are shuddering, the ambassadors twitching their shoulders and lowering their heads as though beset by a tidal wave of ferocious Alpha pheromones.  Even Roan looks uncomfortable, but despite their reaction, Clarke feels nothing.  Glancing toward the tent flap, she sees that Gustus, too, is not reacting, and neither is the Omega Louwoda Kliron Kru ambassador.  Nor, Clarke notes with a flicker of interest, is Luna, although her nose is slightly scrunched.  

Despite the shuddering around her, Lexa remains impassive.

“Clarke will negotiate for you,” she says firmly when she has let up on the pheromones.  “She knows our combined peoples best.  She will speak for you, and then she will be free to leave and not involve herself in politics again if she does not wish it, and you will honor her wish.”  A ripple in the scents in the crowd inform Clarke that Abby wants to argue, but wisely, she does not.  Glancing over to her, she sees that her mother’s mouth is jammed shut.  

“Klark,” Lexa turns her attention to her.  “As ambassador to the Skaikru, you may make your case.”  All eyes turn to Clarke, and suddenly, she is caught at the center of everyone’s attention.  The ambassadors, her mother, Bellamy, Indra; all watching her intently, waiting for her to lead once more.  Just as the Hundred have turned to her since the day they arrived on Earth, her people are looking to her to find the way for them.  They are looking for her to guide them to safety and win them a home as she won the battle at the drop ship, and the war with the Maunon.

Except that Clarke won this war wearing braids and warpaint and armor, and she won it not with guns, but with loyalty.  

“I will trust your judgment to state the facts honorably to the ambassadors and give them fair consideration, Heda,” she says quietly, “but I will not speak for Skaikru.  I gave my word to lead them until the mountain fell, and the mountain has fallen.  They are no longer my people to speak for.”  

Vaguely, she registers the outbreak of noise at her declaration, but Clarke doesn’t react to it.  She has complete and utter faith in Lexa to give the Skaikru a fair trial.  And anyway, this is what it’s all about — trusting Heda, pledging loyalty to her and faith in her.  The Skaikru can’t be part of the Kongeda if they don’t trust Lexa, and that means that Clarke can’t do this for them.  She can’t be the reason that Skaikru isn’t at war with the Coalition, the reason that they see the clans as civilized.  They have to do that on their own, build their own relationship, and in order to do that, Clarke needs to be out of the way. 

She has been hit, suddenly, with another epiphany that has brought her the greatest relief she has ever known.  The pulling of the lever that destroyed the Maunon ended the last responsibility Clarke had to her people.  There is nothing more left to be done.  If the Skaikru deserve a place in the Kongeda, then they will have it, and if they don’t, there’s nothing Clarke can do to convince Lexa and the ambassadors otherwise.  The members of the Hundred trapped in the mountain have been rescued, and the defectors will be given homes.  There will be no more food deprivation, no more Skaikru Alpha posturing; no longer will Clarke be treated as a second-class citizen.  She will not be saddled with the weight of choosing life or death for a people who would never give so much effort and thought to her.  It’s over.  

Clarke doesn’t have to be a leader anymore.

 _“Em pleni!”_ Lexa’s shout silences the tent in an instant.  Clarke is aware of the stare of absolute shock and bewilderment she is receiving from Abby, the pride radiating off of Bellamy, the confusion off the ambassadors; the joy off of Anya.  She has to be imagining it, but she thinks for a split second that she sees Lexa’s eyes twinkle at her across the tent.  “In that case, I will lay the case out plainly.  We will hear the benefits and the drawbacks of allowing Skaikru into the Kongeda, and then we will vote.”

A muttering, a settling of voices and of bodies, and the ambassadors stand ready, attentive.  Then Lexa speaks, and Clarke zones out as she lists the crimes and virtues of the Skaikru. 

 _It’s over._ For the first time since reaching the ground, Clarke feels an overwhelming sense of relief.  After two months of wars and tentative treaties and decisions more difficult that any Clarke has ever wanted to make, she can turn the power over to Lexa.  When this meeting is over, the clans will go their separate ways, and she will go home, with Anya, to village where she will spend the rest of her life with her mate.  The defectors, she knows, will not be far away; Floukru lands begin not far from Tondisi.  They will be close enough to visit whenever they wish.  Clarke has never had a sister, but she thinks she could find one in Echo.  She’s found siblings, too, in Harper, in Raven and Octavia; in Murphy.  

The thought of the last one makes her chuckle.  

“Cast your votes.”  Lexa’s voice breaks in sharply and wrenches Clarke back to the present.  Clearly, the facts have been stated.  Craning her neck, she tries to read Bellamy’s face, but it’s carefully impassive.  “Indra takes the vote for Trikru; Trikru and Floukru have double-sway.  Twelve hands are unanimous.  Seven-hand majority rules; five if Trikru and Floukru are among them, six if only one of them agrees.  All those in favor of accepting Skaikru into the Kongeda as the thirteenth clan, raise your right hand.”  A flurry of movement, and Clarke’s eyes follow it wildly to count as fast as she can.

Eleven hands.  

“Abi Griffin kom Skaikru, welcome to the Kongeda,” Lexa declares.  “Once your Chancellor has healed, I invite him to Polis to participate in a meeting of our ambassadors and accept the sigil of your clan.”  There is a rustling of movement, a rising, swelling murmur of voices; the tension in the atmosphere has broken.

Clarke glances to Abby, afraid of finding her reluctant and defiant, but what she sees takes her by surprise.  Abby is watching Heda with her face composed and open relief behind her eyes.  

“Thank you, Heda,” she murmurs.  There is deference in her tone and her stance that wasn’t there before; she stands with her hands clasped behind her back, her chin raised high and proud.  Her shoulders have dropped, and they are straighter than they have been in years.  There is a calm strength in Abby that Clarke hasn’t seen since Jake Griffin died. 

The survival of her people ensured at last, Clarke watches the weight of it melt off her mother like the morning frost off the leaves neither of them thought they’d ever get to see.

“What are the terms of becoming a clan?” Abby wants to know, and Clarke can see her relief in handing the responsibility over to this woman who is a good quarter of a century younger than she, but immeasurably more wise in all things.  Lexa fixes her with her businesslike, appraising stare, and begins.

There are many terms.  There will be no guns; the Trikru will teach them how to hunt.  Knowledge will be traded; Skaikru will send an emissary to Polis to teach medicine, while the Trikru will send someone to Arkadia to teach about farming, hunting, and warrior training.  Skaikru will be permitted to join the Kongeda army, or to form their own, but not to fight against the clans.  They will abide by the laws of the Kongeda.  Trade will be free between the Skaikru and the other twelve clans. 

“You will abide by the Kongeda laws regarding treatment of your Omegas,” Lexa adds firmly once Abby has absorbed all of this information.  “There is a full laundry list, but the essence of it is that they are to be treated with the highest level of respect.  This is not a request.  The punishment for mistreating an Omega is death.  If your people continue to treat them poorly, your clan will be punished accordingly.”

“I will respect your laws, Heda,” Abby says carefully, uneasily, “but I am afraid it will be slow going.  Our ways are antiquated, perhaps, and we are learning, but it will not be easy for old habits to be reformed.  My people will need time.”  Lexa’s eyebrow ticks upward pointedly.

“Then you will have the chance to lead by example, Abi kom Skaikru,” she says quietly.  “I think you will find it surprisingly easy to treat your fellow human beings with the respect and dignity that is afforded to them.  And as for _your people,”_ she continues, “Klark sacrificed the lives of three hundred people because she saw us all as her people. That was yesterday.  As of today, I think you ought to be reminded of who your Heda is,” she says with an air of unmistakeable finality and satisfaction.  “You are all my people now.”  

* * *

These five continue to disrupt every notion Raven has of standard human interaction.  

With the Council newly in session and the rain refusing to let up, she wanders the camp in search of a place to wait out the meeting and the storm.  She quickly discovers that the forty-odd tents assembled in the vicinity are too crowded with the injured to provide any shelter, but, almost as quickly, she runs into an equally wet and miserable Monty and Harper huddled beneath a tree.  Raven is relieved to see that Harper looks better than she did last night.  They all slept near each other at the fire, and while Raven slept fitfully due to the pain in her leg, she noted that the rest of her friends were able to give in to their exhaustion.  

Of course, they’re all a mess right now.  Monty got shot at and hacked the server that brought down the Mountain Men.  Harper was drilled for marrow a few days ago, rescued, and then held prisoner and almost drilled again.  Up until last night, the two of them hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t eaten in almost as many, and were in a good deal of pain. Never mind the fact that none of them have even had a chance to begin mourning Jasper.  Ever since they landed on the ground, every waking moment has been consumed with fear.  

Except that it’s over now.  There is no more fighting, and once they leave this place, they will mourn their friends, and then this terrible interlude will come to an end.  Raven, at least, has made her decision.  She’ll defect, and by the looks on their faces, Harper and Monty will, too.  Knowing that is a relief, and the decision sits easier in Raven’s chest with the thought that her friends — some of them, at least — will be coming with her.

Being soaking wet is making them all chilly despite the warm air.  The temptation to remain under the tree is great despite the minimal coverage, but from their vantage point, Harper spots an overhang on the side of the Council tent that looks promising.  It will mean a dash through the mud to reach it, but it’s a strip of canvas awning a good three feet wide, and should afford them a better chance at not getting any wetter.  In agreement, they make a run for it; Monty and Harper shriek and holler as they splash through the puddles in the soggy grass.  Raven, with her brace, enjoys the adventure a little less, but it’s only a short jog to the stretch of mostly dry grass beneath the awning.  

The space, as it turns out, is already partially occupied.  Murphy and Emori are cradling their knees to their chests against the outer wall of the tent, Echo leaning on their shoulders between them.  Echo, Raven sees, is wearing Bellamy’s jacket.  Monty and Harper don’t wait for an invitation, piling in immediately, and Raven only hesitates to adjust her brace before easing herself to the ground at Murphy’s side.

It should make her laugh, this motley crew that they’ve assembled.  Monty was a friend of hers at the drop ship, but Harper was a member of Bellamy’s guard, and though they occasionally slept piled together with Clarke for warmth when Harper was off guard duty, they never saw much of each other during the day.  Murphy shot her in the spine and then saved Heda, Maya, and a bunch of other people in one go yesterday.  Emori is a companionable wild card but a stranger nonetheless, and Echo remains an unknown entity. Despite the oddity of their little band, however, Raven feels genuine friendship budding.  Maybe some of it can be attributed to Omega bonds, but she swears that if they ever have to weather out an apocalypse, this troupe might not be the worst to do it with.  

By the time the Council is over, the flood of leaders, ambassadors, and generals emerging from the tent give little indication of how the meeting has gone.  Fortunately, Raven has heard every word.  The six of them have spent the past forty-five minutes smashed together against the wall of the tent, perfectly able to listen in on everything the Council has said.  

Of course, they’re drenched to the skin now, but so is everyone else.  

Heda exits the tent first at the conclusion of the Council meeting, followed directly by Gustus, Indra, and then the ambassadors.  None pay any mind to the ragtag group of six huddled together soaking wet.  Echo tenses a little against Raven’s hip when Roan emerges, but the Prince of Azgeda doesn’t even spare her a glance.  The ambassadors hurry off in every direction, calling out orders and assisting their people in the beginnings of breaking camp to head back home to their clans.  No one so much as glances their way until the last of the ambassadors filter out.  

Clarke, Bellamy, and Abby are among the last to leave, but the ambassador from Louwoda Kliron Kru emerges a little ahead with Anya and Luna.  At the sight of Bellamy, Echo excuses herself and ducks back out into the rain.  She’s scarcely reached him before he’s tugging off his sweater and holding it over her head to shield her from the rain.  Raven rolls her eyes, but follows with Murphy, Emori, Monty, and Harper as they begin to make their way to the front of the tent. 

Anya, the ambassador, and Luna have come to a halt and are exchanging handshakes, but the Louwoda Kliron Kru Omega happens to glance in their direction.  At the sight of Raven, she leans in and whispers something to Luna.  The Floukru leader nods, and as Bellamy and Clarke exit the tent, she raises her voice enough that Raven can hear.  

“Gather your Hundred together, please, and speak to your defectors,” she requests of the two of them.  “The rain is only growing worse, and it’s a five-hour journey on foot back to Floukru lands.  I would like to depart as soon as possible, and I need an idea of how many horses to request to meet us at the border.”  Nearby, the Commander tears herself away from a conversation with Indra.

“I would like to speak to them, too,” she says firmly.  “Particularly those two.”  She indicates Echo and Emori.  Raven sees Bellamy’s shoulders grow tense; Murphy’s clenched jaw tics.  Clarke bristles a little, and Raven can’t stop a tiny noise from escaping the back of her throat.  The Omega ties she has forged in the past twelve hours have made her surprisingly protective of Echo, and she is growing to enjoy Emori’s presence enough that the threat of her being cast out of their group makes her want to snarl a little.  

Besides, if Lexa exiles Emori because of her hand, unbeatable Commander or not, Raven is going to have a bone to pick with her.  

Bellamy and Clarke set to work rounding up the remaining forty-three of the Hundred — minus Octavia, who is on clean-up duty with the other _sekens_ — to hold a final meeting.  Raven, Harper, and Monty spread out to help; Bellamy is trying to get everyone’s attention using the owl-hoot alarm call he tried to get everyone to use back at the drop ship.  Needless to say, it never caught on, and no one is listening.  Eventually, though, they manage to gather everyone together.  Everyone listens as Bellamy explains the decisions reached in the Council tent.  He leaves it to Clarke to explain the option of defecting, in which a number of parents lingering at the edges of the crowd display interest as well. 

“If you would like to go with the Floukru, we’re leaving as soon as everyone is ready to go,” Bellamy concludes.  “I’ll be going, too.  If you’d like to join, please let me know right now so that we can figure out the best way to travel.  Omegas and Betas only, for now, though Luna has agreed to revisit the idea of more Alphas joining eventually.”  Raven raises her hand, as do Murphy, Harper, Monty, Emori, and Echo.  Miller does as well, but stipulates that he will go with his father to Camp Jaha to sort out matters of the guard first, and hopefully convince Jackson to come with him.  As both men are Omegas, he thinks that they will enjoy a life among the Floukru, with the added bonus that Jackson is a healer and will have a great deal to contribute.  Two or three other Omegas who Raven doesn’t know indicate that they would also like to return to Camp Jaha with their families and then consider moving to Tondisi.  This, too, is permitted, and with the new knowledge of their travel companions, the seven of them, plus Clarke, report back to Luna and Lexa.  

“Wonderful,” is Luna’s response to the news.  She’s smiling warmly at all of them, but her eyes linger on Raven in particular.  “With so few of us, we should be able to travel well on foot.  Much of the day is left to us, so there will be plenty of time to stop and rest as needed, and anyone who is still ill or injured can be carried if they grow too tired to continue.”  She looks particularly to Raven and Echo at that; Echo, Raven sees, is swaying a little on her feet.  She also began coughing in the night, which considering the rain they’re about the walk through isn’t a promising sign.  

“Before you leave,” Lexa asserts her presence, “I must speak with you.  What is your name?” she addresses Emori directly.  Emori raises her chin.

“I am Emori.”  Her eyes glint like steel, even in the grey of the rain.  Raven notices Murphy’s hand twitch by her side.  Lexa regards her intently.

“And where do you come from, Emori?” she asks.  Emori’s jaw tightens.

“My parents were Boudalan, but they were cast out to the Dead Zone after my birth,” she says with flat honesty.  “Your laws don’t permit _frikdreina_ within a hundred miles of Polis.”  She doesn’t include Lexa’s title anywhere, and it does not go unnoticed; Lexa cocks an eyebrow.

“Those are laws put in place by previous Commanders in response to the demands of the people,” she counters evenly.  “They are laws that I am attempting to change.  But how, then, were you captured by the Maunon?” she questions pointedly.  “The _ripas_ did not venture so beyond the mountain’s boundaries.”  Emori straightens her shoulders.  She’s still clad in the Mountain Men’s guard jumpsuit, soaked with rain.  Her hair sticks to her cheeks, and the wet material that binds her left hand is beginning to slip free.  Her body shakes a little with exertion and blood loss, but her eyes are fierce, and the set of her shoulders proud.  

“My brother Otan and I often stole from travelers along these roads in order to eat,” she explains with frank pride.  “We were taken together.  His fight is over, but he fought to save me.”  Her voice rises; Murphy’s fingers tighten on her forearm.  

Luna and the Commander exchange an indecipherable glance.  

“If we were speaking of the other clans, I could not guarantee your welcome,” is Lexa’s frank statement.  “However, the Floukru have different views.  Anyone who can contribute to the clan is offered a place.  What is your skill, Emori?”  At her side, Luna is watching her with interest.  Emori lifts her chin higher.

“I am a mechanic,” she declares. 

“Do you know how to pilot a boat?” Luna breaks in.  Emori smirks.  

“I have my own,” she replies.  Luna inclines her head.  

“Then I believe, Emori kom Floukru, that you will do well among my people,” she says with a small smile.  Lexa only nods.

“Indeed,” she agrees.  “Welcome, Emori, to the clans.  Now, as for you.”  She directs her attention to Echo, who is leaning into Bellamy’s side.  “I believe we have met before.” Echo pushes her weight off of Bellamy to stand tall.  

Up until now, Raven has only seen her asleep or cuddled up to Bellamy, but the spy at her full height is intimidating.  The lines of her body are straight, her face strong-boned. Her eyes are dark, sharp; they flash with a hint of something ruthless, but her posture suggests deference.  She is an odd combination of hardened and submissive, Raven decides; soft and pliant beneath, but on the surface cold and unyielding.  

Her expression is impassive, but the way she holds herself shifts by the moment, as though she is ready to alter herself at the slightest indication of the role she needs to play. Her gaze has scanned each one of them already, Raven notes; she is cataloguing, strategizing.  

Echo is a spy, an assassin; by the looks of it, she’s an excellent one.  

“I am Echo kom Azgeda,” she says quietly, but her words carry through the soft patter of the rain.  “You are correct that we have met before.”  The gaze she and the Commander hold is icy, flat; unwavering.  “I am the spy Haiplana Nia sent to Polis four summers ago.”  

Indra takes a step forward into Echo’s space.  She’s a good head shorter than the spy, but her lips are curled in a snarl.  

“You led Nia to believe that those closest to Heda knew her secrets when your clan went to war with the Kongeda,” she spits furiously.  “You told her that the Omega who escaped her lands had fallen in love with the Commander and was the reason Heda declared war upon Azgeda to absorb them into the Kongeda and eliminate the old laws of Omega slavery.   _You sold her information and brought Costia’s head back to the Commander’s pillow and stained the furs red with the blood of your Omega sister who had suffered the same way you had at Nia’s hands!”_

 _“Indra!  That is enough!”_  The Commander has not moved, but her eyes have grown icier than Echo’s; Raven winces, anticipating a blast of furious Alpha pheromones, but it does not come.  “Azgeda is a part of this Kongeda, and has been since that day.  You will not allow your pride to sully that in defense of me.”  Indra’s expression does not alter; her teeth are bared, her eyes snapping with cold fury.  

“Heda, this spy is the reason that Costia was murdered — ”

 _“I_ am the reason that Costia was murdered,” Lexa cuts across her sharply.  “The only one responsible for her death is the one who drew the sword, and that is Queen Nia, who sheathed that same sword when I offered her a place in my Coalition.  I chose humility and peace when she offered me violence, and you are undoing that now by choosing violence in return!”  Still, Indra doesn’t move; neither does Lexa.  Echo remains motionless, face impassive; unflinching.  

“My duty then was to my Haiplana, as your duty was to your Commander,” she says calmly.  Nothing in her expression wavers.  “Your armies slaughtered Azgedan villages, guilty and innocent alike among them.  We have just murdered three hundred people in the name of our own salvation; we all do what we must for the people we fight for.  War makes monsters of us all.”  

There is silence.  No one moves; the defectors, Anya, and Clarke remain frozen, scarcely breathing.  The only sound is the patter of rain on their shoulders.  

Then Indra spits, to the side away from Echo, and steps back behind where Heda stands with her arms clasped behind her back.  

“Good,” the Commander says flatly, “and let this conversation not be brought up again within my hearing, or I will be inclined to show less _humility_ and patience.  Echo kom Azgeda, you say your duty was to your _Haiplana._  I ask you where your duty lies now.”  For the first time since the argument began, Echo breaks her mask.  Her eyes flick over to where Bellamy stands close by, expression a contorted mess of defiance and concern.  

“I have none,” she exhales on a short breath.  Her eyes leave Bellamy, but Raven can sense the slight upsurge of pheromones.  “Not to any ruler, in any case.  Haiplana Nia will not accept me back among her people; Prince Roan has made it clear to me that I am not welcome to return home.”  For the first time, Lexa’s nose twitches.  Something seems to dawn on her.  

“And why is that?” she questions.  Echo lets out another hard exhale.

“I am a disgraced Omega who is unable to breed,” she expounds on a humorless laugh.  “There is no place for me in Azgeda.”  

“And what is it that you want of me?”  The Commander’s voice is not as cold as before, but leaves no room for resistance.  

“I — ”  Echo looks back to Bellamy; through the rain, his eyes soften at her.  Raven detects a tiny tremble at the corner of Echo’s lips.  Her shoulders have begun to fall a little.  “. . . Bellomi told me that the Floukru judge worth by what one can contribute, not what they cannot.  I was . . . hoping — that I might be granted amnesty among a people who will not look upon me as broken for what I cannot give them,” she says quietly, and there is no mistaking it; her voice is shaking.  It’s minute, barely noticeable, but Raven feels it in her bones.  Bellamy shifts ever-so-slightly closer to her in the mud.  

Lexa still has not moved.

“As a spy against the Kongeda, law dictates that you are a traitor and will be put to death for your crimes,” the Commander begins.  Bellamy’s whole body twitches.  “But as an Omega, you are granted amnesty and may take refuge under the protection of the clans.  And so we are at an impasse,” Lexa continues evenly.  The tremble in Echo’s lip does not diminish.  “As such, I suggest a compromise: convince me that you are useful to the Kongeda in return for your treason, and I will let you live.”  

The last thing Raven expects Echo to do is smile, but the spy’s shoulders straighten so that she stands taller than ever before; a smirk spreads across her rain-dampened face.  

“Haiplana Nia has not followed your new laws of Omega treatment as well as you stipulated,” she tells the Commander.  “Many villages still enslave them and subject them to the treatment that you outlawed.  When you send your scouts to visit and ensure that the laws are being followed, spies warn the villagers of their approach.  There are seventeen villages in which the old ways persist.”  Her smirk grows.  “I know the name of every one of them.”  

* * *

The defectors depart at high noon.  The seven of them disappear into the woods with Luna, shouldering packs and clad in borrowed clothes.  Clarke encases them all in tight hugs, trading promises to visit and murmured well-wishes, and then steps back into Anya’s arms to watch them go.  It only takes a minute before they are out of sight, but Clarke remains until the sound of their footsteps in the leaves is muffled by the wind and drizzling rain.  

The defectors are followed, over the course of the next half hour, by the delegates and volunteers from the seven other clans who came to aid with recovery after the mountain’s fall. The mountain’s door is left sealed behind them; it has been decided, after much debate, that the Trikru and Skaikru will strip it of useful items together if such supplies are ever needed.  For now, it remains what it was: a tomb in the mountainside, empty of life, closed off from the world outside.  

Skaikru and Trikru are the last to leave.  Clarke watches the clans depart from the edge of the burned-out campfire, people on foot and on horseback melting in every direction back into the forest and the mountains and the plains beyond.  The rain by now is faltering, and by the thinning of the sky looks to stop by the time they break camp.  Anya is exchanging final words with Lexa, Indra, and Nyko while Callum and Jean vie for the chance to defeat Octavia in a sparring match — winner rides the only free horse home.  

They’re all going home together.  Lexa will return to Polis with Nyko and Gustus, but the rest will make the two-hour journey together to the village of Anilin.  Callum and Jean, Clarke has learned, work together there in times of peace in the blacksmith’s shop they own.  Lincoln’s cousin runs a trading post; he and Octavia will settle in his home in the village, too.  Indra lives half an hour’s ride away in Tondisi, and Octavia will stay there at times to complete her training as a warrior, but for now, with the war newly over, she and Lincoln will spend the first part of the winter together before she goes.  The coastal Floukru village where Luna lives is not far by horseback, and Camp Jaha — to be rechristened Arkadia — is only a several hours’ ride away.  Clarke’s family, old and new, will all be close by.  

Her old family approaches her as she is packing the last of their weapons into saddle bags.  The knives and swords will need to be sharpened and polished once they arrive home, but the time of war, for now, is over.  Other than small hunting knives in their bootstraps, there is no more need for weapons today.  Clarke wants to learn how to care for them, eventually; how to polish and sharpen and to buff the wooden handles.  It feels like part of making her home.  There were no weapons on the Ark besides guns and tasers, and those were reserved for the guards.  Clarke hopes to never need them again for war, but the weight of wood and stone feels right in her hands.

“You’ll come visit, I hope?”  

Abby’s voice is quieter than Clarke expects.  Glancing up from the saddlebags, she braces herself, expecting yet another argument, but she halts almost immediately.  There is nothing on Abby’s face but a small smile that doesn’t quite dim the sadness behind her eyes.  Clarke feels a flash of something unfamiliar in her heart.  After all that has come between them, part of her wants to deny Abby this.  The privilege of seeing her child happy should be reserved for someone who didn’t send her husband and child to die, but the days of judging humanity by the weight of death are over.  They have both done unspeakable things in the name of survival, and the dead are gone.  

So Clarke tells her, with equal quietness, “Of course.”  She fiddles with the straps of the saddle bag for another moment, and then stands up, straightening her back against the weight of the day that with the sun at half-height already seems so long.  The nostalgia doesn’t filter out of the set of Abby’s mouth; after a moment of regarding her with chapped lips pursed, Clarke sighs.  “Mom, of course I will.  And you’ll come see us?  Where we live?”  It’s the hope that hurts her the most, that she can’t manage to discard as much as it pains her to carry it.  No matter how thin and poisoned the blood between them, it is still the only living blood that Clarke still shares.  Abby is her only mother, no matter what else either of them have become.  

Abby’s eyebrows pinch, and for a terrible moment, Clarke is afraid her mother is going to cry.  Then she registers the sting at the backs of her own eyes and decides that her warpaint is smudged enough already.  A few more tears won’t be noticed in the misting rain.

“I would love to.”  It’s a strangled whisper, strained at its peaks, but genuine.  Clarke can only bite her lip and nod.  There are heavier, hotter tears now, and at the sight of them, something in Abby seems to melt.  “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, and Clarke can’t stop herself from choking.  “I’m so sorry.”  And the dam finally breaks.  

She’s in Abby’s arms before any other muscle in her body has time to react in protest, and by the time it finally occurs to her, the impulse has melted away.  Clarke leans into her mother and cries.  When Abby’s arms wind around her, the recognition hits her that the last time they hugged was at the gates of Camp Jaha when they saw each other for the first time after hitting the ground.  Before that, it was the day the Hundred left the Ark.  

The tears come faster, and Clarke’s back shudders as she listens to the words Abby is crooning in her ear.  

“I’m proud of you, Clarke,” is the clearest of all, and it does nothing to keep her from weeping.  “We’ve done awful, awful things.  It’s about time that we get to do some that are good.”   Clarke closes her eyes, and feels Abby’s tears dampen the collar of her coat.  It’s a long few minutes before either of them make any move to pull away.

At last, it’s Clarke who breaks the hug, swiping tears from her eyes and coughing a little to clear her throat.  

“Please do come visit,” she says at last, a little strangled.  Abby brushes wet braids back from her eyes, and Clarke is reminded of being eight, on the Ark, and Abby teaching her how to French braid.  “I know you don’t like them yet, but the Trikru are my people, and I . . . I’m happy that I get to build a life with them.  I’ll be happier if you’re in it sometimes, too.”  Her eyes travel over to where Anya stands trading jibes with Indra.  She smiles a little at the sight of the latter, slightly irate, cuffing her impish former _seken_ about the head while Octavia looks on with glee.  

Abby follows her gaze, and this time, her smile is deeper and more genuine when it matches Clarke’s.  

“Some of them are more agreeable than others,” is all she says, but it earns her a watery chuckle.  A pause, and then more seriously, “I’m happy that you’ve found her, Clarke. She’s a good woman, and so are you.”  Clarke draws her gaze back to her mother; Abby’s smile is a little sad, but her words are nothing but genuine.  Clarke swallows.

“You know this, me leaving, doesn’t mean that I’m not . . .”  she draws a shaky breath.  “I still love you, Mom.”  

“And I love you,” says Abby firmly.  “You are my only child.  The Skaikru may not be your people anymore, but you are my daughter.  You will always be my people.”  Clarke hiccups a shuddery inhale, and Abby brushes her hand across her forehead.  Then she steps back, and smiles wider.  “Now go with your new clan,” she says more brightly, and she’s wearing a smirk that has Clarke immediately on alert.  “You reek of heat, and if you don’t reach your new home soon, it’s going to be embarrassing for everyone involved. I’m your mother, and I love you very much, but there are some things that I don’t need to see.”  Clarke splutters.

 _“Mom!”_ she protests.  It draws the attention of Anya, who momentarily looks concerned before she realizes that there is no argument in which to intervene.  Abby only chuckles fondly, and with another kiss to Clarke’s forehead, she steps away, and the last of the Skaikru gather up their things.  Clarke watches them go until they too disappear into the trees, the last of the Hundred trailing behind.  The sun has broken through the last of the rain, and the forest is alight with golden rays that light the backs of Arkadian jackets until the last one has vanished in the trees. 

She doesn’t have much time to mull over the dull ache in her heart before she’s nearly bowled over by Octavia racing Callum to the last available horse.  

“Dry your tears and kick off great-grand-mommy’s astronaut boots!” she whoops as she strips off her sword and coat.   _“These space bitches are going home!”_

* * *

It is a three-hour ride from Mount Weather to Anilin.  The way is marked by deep forests and lush foothills, open trails through coppery fields of late summer flowers and waving grasses.  They pass through several villages along the way where Lincoln and Anya call out greetings to people they know.  The sun is bright on Clarke’s skin as they ride; the last days of summer carry enough warmth that they have all stripped down to thin shirts.  Anya’s tattooed arms encircle her as they ride.  

The movement of the horse beneath them, the warm shimmer of the sunlight on her hands, the quiet, piney scent of the forest, the heated press of Anya’s lips to her shoulders; all are earthy and vibrant and so close to Clarke she can feel them in her blood.  The air is smooth and cool, but the heat within her is strong.  Tingles race up and down her spine whenever Anya’s kisses reach her pulse point.  On their ride to the mountain yesterday morning, it was all she could do not to arch into Anya and let her heat take over her, but the looming war and watchful eyes of her mother kept her restrained.  

Now, though, there is no reason to hold back.  Callum and Jean are making their way on foot, ultimately being bereft of horses by the Tondisi group, and are compensating by playing an elaborate game of tag through the trees.  Lincoln and Octavia, sharing Lincoln’s horse Helios, are engaged in an only slightly less blatant display of canoodling.  The clans, Clarke knows, have a much more open attitude towards sex; Clarke’s shame — if she ever had any — disappeared with her mother into the mountains.  She closes her eyes beneath Anya’s lips and lets her hips roll.

They stop for a food and water break when Octavia’s growling stomach can be heard by even Jean and Callum.  Lincoln produces a bag of dried meat and fruit, which is passed around to all as they sit on the banks of a stream with their ankles dangling into the water.  The only Omega in the group, Clarke shouts down everyone’s attempts to give her the largest portion.  In the end, she wins the argument by siding with Callum, who is eyeing the biggest piece of meat with eager eyes.  Nevertheless, everyone diligently waits for her to take the first bite of her dried apple before digging in.  

Clarke swishes her feet in the water, enjoying the feeling of it against her legs.  As they bask in the sun, Anya turns and holds out a piece of what Clarke thinks is pear between her fingers, and Clarke makes eye contact with her eyes twinkling.  She grasps Anya’s wrist in her hands and takes the Alpha’s fingertips between her lips, curling her tongue around them.  The way that Anya’s eyes darken is unmistakeable.  A low growl leaves her throat.  Clarke’s heart stutters; blood hot, she smirks, and begins to lean in —

“Would you stop DOING that!” Anya barks out when Octavia lands directly beside them.  She’s bounded out of the water where she’s been wading, scattering water droplets everywhere.

“Let’s _go!”_ Octavia insists, ignoring her completely.  “You can canoodle all you like when you get home, but some of us would like to get there sooner rather than later.  I have a big man and a big bed waiting for me and I’m getting impatient.”  Clarke pulls back, nose scrunched in irritation.  

“Impatient?  You?”  She arches an eyebrow.  “Who would have ever thought?”  Anya is glowering.  

“You’re _not_ thinking, Heatbrain,” Octavia complains.  “That’s the problem.  Now let’s go home already so I can lick the warpaint off Lincoln in peace.”  She bounds off at that, leap-frogging over Jean to reach Helios before he can hijack him for his own use.  Lincoln’s shouts follow them back between the trees.

“My house has a real front door,” Anya declares, watching her race away.  “Sturdy.  With a lock.”  Clarke nods.

 _“Good.”_  

It takes them another hour and a half to reach Anilin, by which time the sun is well-below full height, though still with several hours remaining until dark.  It casts a golden glow on the village as they approach, the rooftops, trees, and streets all seemingly lit from within.  Temporarily distracted from her heat, Clarke stares in wide-eyed curiosity at the little village with its quaint cottages and colorful signs of life.  Near the middle of town is a small square, bright with grass and flowers that center around a covered well.  One side of the square is made by a tall building with a tower that Clarke recognizes as an Old World church.  

A number of people stream into the square as they ride up, and calls of joy and greeting echo out from all sides.  Clarke’s heart squeezes at the realization that it’s been two months since any of the four warriors have been home, and with the battle of the drop ship, anyone who hasn’t heard more recent news has likely thought Lincoln and Anya dead. Everyone chatters excitedly at the sight of them, crowding around on all sides.  When they draw the horses to a halt, however, and swing off, Clarke becomes conscious that a good number of the eyes are on her.  At the same time, she becomes aware of the whispers running through the crowd.   _Wanheda._

She freezes, uncertain, one hand lingering on the side of the horse.  All the faces turned towards her are fixed with awe, and the whispers sound oddly reverent.  Behind her, Anya pauses too, and for a moment, nobody moves.

Then one by one, the villagers begin to sink to their knees.  

“Don’t,” Clarke murmurs instinctively, but Anya’s hand falls to her shoulder.

“Let them,” she murmurs back lowly.  “We have lost so many to the mountain over the years, and lived in such fear.  You have given them peace.  Let them thank you for it.”  And because this square is bright, and filled with sunlight and kind people, and because they are what will finally bring her peace in return, Clarke does.  

It doesn’t last long before Callum cracks a joke; in doing so, everyone rises again with a laugh, and then the greetings and storytelling begins in earnest.  Lincoln bears Octavia off to introduce her all around, and Callum and Jean go sauntering off with their cousin to what looks suspiciously like a tavern.  A small crowd lingers around Clarke and Anya, praising Anya for her return and asking questions in rapid-fire Trigedasleng that’s almost too fast for Clarke to follow.  It is only when a small woman with a shock of white pushes herself through the crowd with a cry that any of them give the two any breathing room.  

“Nana!” is Anya’s answering delighted call.  She sweeps the elderly woman into a hug; Clarke watches in amusement as the woman is forced to rise to her tiptoes in order to stay on the ground.  When Anya lets go, the woman smacks her good-naturedly on the arm.  

 _“Branwada,”_ she scolds, but there is an amused glimmer in her eye.  “I think you dead for a month, only to hear that you’ve survived that one and are off fighting another war, and all I get is a hug?  I expect a new rocking chair by Solstice, or else we’ll see about you getting those dishes I promised you when I go.”  

“Nana!” Anya complains immediately.  “Do not speak about — ”

“I will speak about what I wish,” the woman declares boldly with a roguish grin.  “Where do you think you get it from?”  

“Nana,” Anya continues patiently.  Her fingers smooth the line of Clarke’s shoulders, tangle briefly in the ends of her hair.  “This is Klark.  Klark, this is Alma.  My grandmother.”  Her palm closes over the round of Clarke’s shoulder, nestling the Omega into her side.  

 _“Meika’s slak,”_ Clarke offers the greeting in Trigedasleng.  A small smile twitches on Anya’s lips. 

As Alma’s shrewd eyes scan her figure, Clarke notices immediately that the woman’s Alpha scent carries traces of Anya.  She’s short, and her face is heavier and rounder, but she is composed of the same lean lines and angles as her granddaughter.  They have the same nose, Clarke notices with some amusement, and though they are blue instead of brown, her eyes hold the same measure of pride and warmth.  

They also widen with something more than the recognition of Wanheda when they come to rest on Clarke’s face.  

 _“Miya, strik Treja,”_ she says softly.  “Let me look at the woman who holds my granddaughter’s heart.”  Obediently, Clarke steps out from Anya’s embrace.  She feels stark and exposed beneath Alma’s gaze, suddenly oddly aware of the differences that set her apart from the Trikru.  Abruptly, she sees herself through the other woman’s eyes.  Half of what she wears are Anya’s clothes, but her pants are still Skaikru’s, and her boots as well.  They are tattered and old in a way that Trikru clothing, for all their natural wear and tear, never appear.  Her wrists are thin, her hips and shoulders less so; she knows that weeks of fight-or-flight on the ground have robbed her of her natural weight while being better fed has lent it elsewhere.  Clarke is still unused to being cared for; she knows she wears health awkwardly, at least for now, like the unfamiliar entity that it is.  She is tired, and her braids have begun to come undone.

But when Alma cups her cheek in a rough-knuckled hand, it is with the same reverence that Anya shows her every day.  

“Anya,” Alma breathes without breaking her eyes away.  “You have a beautiful mate.”  Clarke’s cheeks flush red; she ducks her head, but Alma catches her jaw on the tips of her fingers.  “It is an honor to meet you, my daughter.”  The sincerity of it makes something choke up in the back of Clarke’s throat.  Sensing that she is overwhelmed, Anya runs a hand along the small of her back, and suddenly, Clarke’s knees buckle.  Her eyes slide closed with a bit-off whimper as a rush of heat races through her blood.

When she opens her eyes again, breathing off-kilter, both women are watching her with concern.  

“Anya, the poor thing is heat-stricken,” Alma _tsks_ despairingly.  “Take your mate home and give her the care she needs.”  A growling purr rumbles in Anya’s chest; pressing back into her side, Clarke lets her eyes fall closed again.  Alma is right.  She is bone-tired and weak with need.  After so long of anticipating it, the shock of finally being safe and at peace is almost overwhelming.  “We take care of Omegas in this family, _strik skai gada,”_ Alma says with another brush of fingertips across her cheek.  “Let your Alpha dote on you.”  

“Come, _strikon.”_  Anya murmurs it into her hair, and Clarke’s legs tremble with the vibration of it against her ear.  Good god, she’s a mess.  “Let us get you home.”  With hugs and promises to Alma to share dinner soon, the two depart, Anya leading the horse by the reins down the narrow cobbled street.  

It is a beautiful little village, Clarke realizes as she uses her remaining energy to gaze about in wonder.  The houses are all small like those in Tondisi, none of them taller than two stories, but they are cozy and well-kept.  Rugs hang over windowsills to air; flowers blossom in the grass in gardens overflowing with small crops.  As they pass by, the chatter of children and clanging of pots drift out of open windows with the smell of cooking food.  In one house, someone is playing what sounds like an Old Earth piano.  

Reaching the end of the populated street, the road continues with homes spread farther apart.  Cottages dot the landscape, framed by gardens and small groves of trees.  Clarke takes it all in with the hunger of someone who has not seen a meal in days.  The beauty of it, the peace of it, is drawn in with every breath she takes.  

“I didn’t know you had any family still living,” Clarke comments as they turn through a shaded grove on the cobblestones.  Anya’s hand is warm and strong where their fingers are intertwined.  Gently, the Alpha brings their joined hands up to press a kiss to Clarke’s knuckles.  The fluttering in Clarke’s belly increases.  

“She is the last of my blood,” Anya replies.  “My father’s _nomon._  She watched out for me after the war took my parents.  We have always been very close.”  Clarke hums thoughtfully.  She’s distracted by the slow rub of Anya’s thumb over the back of her hand.  With her heat almost fully upon her, she feels herself slipping into a daze.  There is nothing, nothing in the world, besides her Alpha’s heady scent and the feel of Anya’s hand in hers.  The heat swirls in her belly and her chest, urging her to nuzzle and plead and fall to her knees.  She wants it all; Anya’s kisses and her touch and her hands tangled in her hair.  She wants to curl into Anya’s arms and feel small, cared for; to give herself up, at last, to the woman who has given her so much.  

The prospect of her heat might frighten Clarke if not for the fact that she has been longing to feel it for so long.  On the Ark, she would never have gotten the chance to experience being an Omega in full.  She would have never known how her Alpha’s scent could call to her, how a brush of Anya’s hand could send her spiraling into helpless need.  She never knew that she could want something so badly, could want to submit so badly.  She can feel the need arcing through her body, searching for a place to settle. She wants to sink to her knees, right here, and show her Alpha how good she is, how caring and strong and deserving; how much Clarke wants her, treasures her.  She wants to taste Anya’s skin and feel her and — 

“I’m looking forward to knowing her,” Clarke tells her instead, and it’s true; she’s excited to know the people Anya calls family.  “Your friends here, too.  And I — ”  Anya has drawn to a halt, and Clarke stops dead, looking up at her curiously. 

“We are home,” Anya says quietly.  A beat passes before Clarke registers what she has said, and then she takes it in, lips parted in surprise at the sight before her.

Like the others in the village, the cottage is small, but it’s built beautifully of stones and bright, clean wood, with large windows sparkling in the afternoon sunlight.  A stone path leads to the front door from an arched garden gate wrought of metal, and curls around the back of the house to where Clarke can see a garden spreading out wide across the land.  A beautiful old oak and a towering willow stand sentinel at the edges of the garden.  

There is pride in Anya’s stance and in her beautiful, dark eyes as her gaze falls on Clarke’s awed expression.

“You built this?”  It comes out hushed with awe.  Anya nods, quiet pride still radiating from her eyes.  Clarke’s heart is beating fast.  “Alone?”  At that, Anya’s gaze softens.

“I am not alone anymore,” she murmurs, and gathers Clarke into her arms to pull her into a kiss.  

Clarke surrenders with a tiny, shocked sound.  Anya has dropped the reins; her hand in Clarke’s hair is tight and possessive.  Her other hand traces the Omega’s waist, dipping beneath her shirt to cradle the sweep of soft curves.  Clarke’s head spins; Anya guides her, giving, _possessing,_ and it’s all that Clarke can do to remain upright as her Alpha cradles her in her arms and lets her feel every ounce of the need that they share.  This hunger is new, and ferocious, and a little frightening; all Clarke can do is give in to it and hope Anya can keep her afloat.  

Clarke feels small in Anya’s arms.  She’s scarcely a few inches shorter than the Alpha, but her heat is filling her with a clumsy, kittenish need.  She likes feeling little, enveloped; protected.  There is something immensely appealing in knowing that she is strong, and knowing that Anya knows it, and allowing herself to be made submissive and pliable and needy.  She trusts Anya immensely; it is tempting to think of giving herself over and allowing her Alpha to take care of her in every way.  

And Anya will take care of her.  Clarke knows how good she is, how attentive and doting.  She will give Clarke everything she needs.  She’ll give her warmth and nourishment and protection, and though Clarke is perfectly capable of providing herself with all three, she knows that letting Anya give her that is exactly what both of them want.  This is an aspect of being an Omega that she never would have gotten to experience on the Ark.  She knows that Anya will take care of her in all the ways that Alphas are meant to take care of their Omegas.  She knows Anya will be good at it, too.

Of course, she has no real frame of reference, but Clarke’s no virgin; she messed around with Finn, though it never went further than a little fondling, and there was little else to do back on the Ark.  Still, this is different.  Heats are different.  Besides, Clarke doubts that any of her previous encounters can hold a candle to Anya.  The Trikru are accepting of sex in a way that the Skaikru most absolutely are not, and — more significantly — Anya knows what she’s doing.  After all, Clarke reminds herself, she has had nine more years than Clarke to figure it out.  

No one may have had a heat in living memory on the Ark, but Clarke knows what it means.  She knows that all she will want for the next few days is to keep Anya as close as possible.  The need will overwhelm her, and exhaust them both.  She’ll want to be knotted, want a mating bite; she’ll want pups.  It will be a gift to share those things with Anya in her heat, but in a way, it almost doesn’t matter.  Clarke wants all of it anyway. 

She looks up, and with the beam of bold sunlight that falls on Anya’s lashes, the quiet recognition hits her, blazing through her chest, that she is in love.  

“Would you like to see inside?”  The softness of the look Anya is giving her tells Clarke that her awe is visible.  Her heart flutters at the sight.  Wordlessly, she nods, and after the horse has been hitched to the gate, allows Anya to guide her by the hand up the garden path.  When she pushes the door open on quiet hinges, Clarke’s eyes light up.

Not all of it is visible from the entrance; the door opens into a large room opposite a small hallway.  To Clarke’s left lies the kitchen — an iron stove, what looks like a working sink, plus a great deal of granite-topped counter space — and a large oaken table and chairs.   Everything is cozy; small but light and homey.  The living room’s wooden floor is covered near the fireplace with a thick rug of braided strips of red and violet and blue.  There is a couch, built upon a wooden frame and lined with down pillows covered in furs. The fireplace, built of flagstones with its oaken mantle, is opposite a chimney on the far wall, which Clarke takes to mean that the bedroom is heated by fire as well.  

Not visible from the entrance, Clarke knows, are the small shed on the side where Anya’s weapons are stored, or the little workshop where she carves.  From the main room, one door leads off to the slightly smaller, empty room that belonged to Tris, and Lexa before her.  A short hallway leads to the bedroom, a bathroom, and the workshop.  Though small, the house is warm and brightly lit by large windows, and feels unmistakably like home.

It occurs to Clarke, with a tremble that makes her brace her hand on the doorframe, that it is.  

Her family’s quarters on the Ark, while larger than most, were still cramped and crowded, scarcely big enough for the three of them.  After that, she lived in solitary, and after that . . . well, sleeping in a pile with Harper and Raven was as good and stable as it got until Mount Weather.  Then came the dormitory, and then, after that, Anya’s arms.  Clarke has lived in a lot of places, but other than the Griffin’s apartment on the Ark, she has never had a _home._  

She has also never been in a house before.

She has once, she supposes, technically speaking, but rushing after Lexa to drag a baby away from a building that was about to be hit by a missile scarcely feels like a chance to appreciate it.  

“It is small, but it is comfortable,” Anya is saying softly beside her.  “There will be more than enough space for both of us.  There is a garden, too, a big one, and a berry patch. The village has a farm, too; a communal space where everyone keeps and tends to their animals.  We each get an allotment based on household size.  Before, with Tris, there were two of us, and now . . . well, nothing will have changed.  There is space in the garden, too, for herbs if you would like them.  There would be room for a — a family,” she chokes out.  “If . . . if we would want one.”  Clarke’s heart flutters at the thought.  

A family.  Pups, _their_ pups, in her belly and in Anya’s arms and running and playing and growing up in this house.  Anya teaching them how to swim; Clarke tending the garden with them at her side.  All of them walking together to the market in the village, together; a family.  

Clarke has never wanted anything more.  

She surges up on her toes and interrupts Anya’s ramblings with a kiss.  

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes against the Alpha’s lips.  She lets herself purr with the words, tracing her fingers up Anya’s chest to play with the collar of her shirt.  It’s true; Clarke never imagined such a home for herself, not in her wildest dreams.  Anya built this alone with her own hands, each wall and floorboard and beautifully carved chair.  Every inch of this house radiates the love and care that Anya poured into it, as she pours it into everything she does.  

It may just be a house, but to Clarke, it’s paradise.  

“It is more than big enough for two,” Anya goes on, dropping soft kisses on Clarke’s jaw between words.  “You should have a comfortable space, though, to yourself; somewhere to sit  while you draw.  I will make you one.  I will build you a room to paint in, somewhere with lots of light.”  She looks so eager, so hopeful; watching her eyes flit back and forth anxiously, Clarke realizes that she is being doted upon.  Adored.  Her lips linger over the thrum of a racing heartbeat, and Clarke swoons.  Anya’s fingers are tracing up the back of her shirt, playing with the dimples at the small of her back.  

“You don’t have to do all of that for me,” Clarke murmurs dazedly back.  The pheromones swimming in her head are beginning to affect her so powerfully that words are a sudden struggle to produce. 

“You are _my Omega,”_ Anya counters firmly, and punctuates the statement by pressing the edges of her teeth to the soft spot beneath Clarke’s ear.  Rocked by the sensation, Clarke sways on her feet with a whimper.  “I will give you _everything,_ and still you will deserve more, but it is an honor to take care of an Omega, and I intend to make myself worthy of that honor.”  A slightly choked sound escapes her at that; she noses Clarke’s scent gland for reassurance.  

Clarke only tilts her head and lets her, aware of how much of a whirlwind of emotions these past months must have been for her Alpha.  She knows she is not alone in being overwhelmed.  Anya has struggled with the instinct to care for her since the day they met, and has been thwarted by war and politics at every turn.  With her heat a mere breath away, Clarke senses all of the building emotions from the moment they first escaped Mount Weather coming to a head.  All it will take, she knows, is a little push.  

“You already are.”  Her breath is hot in the dips of Anya’s collarbone.  Clarke drops a kiss there for good measure.  She has begun to purr in earnest, letting the sound roll up through her ribs and into Anya’s body against her.  “You’re _so_ good to me, Anya, better than I deserve.  You’re the only Alpha I want.”  Clarke’s only half paying attention to what she’s saying at this point, most of her attention devoted to the feel of Anya beneath her lips.  Oh, she wants to kiss her, wants to peel away the sleeves of the thin shirt she wears and trace her tongue across the places that will make her Alpha shiver.  She is consumed by a fierce hunger for the woman who has given her so much.

She’s aware that she’s broadcasting needy pheromones about as blatantly as she possibly can, but Clarke finds that she no longer has it in her to care.  Let Anya notice.  Let her Alpha instincts overcome her; let her pin Clarke down and drag her heat out of her with her screams.  Clarke doesn’t care anymore.  She _wants_ it, _wants_ Anya to let that side of her take over.  The Alpha within Anya is loving and doting but also dark and hungry and possessive, and Clarke wants to feel that side take control.  Anything, everything that Anya can give her, she’ll take like an offering to the gods.  

“I am not better than you deserve,” Anya hums back at her, continuing to nuzzle her ear.  Abruptly, though, she pulls away, leaning her head back with a rueful grin.  “But I am sweaty, and covered in ash, _strik skaifaya,_ and so are you.  We reek of war.”  

War may not be all they reek of, but it’s certainly true.  Beneath the mesh of hunger and Alpha and Omega and heat, both of them are rather filthy.  Broken momentarily out of her trance, Clarke eyes her own soot-streaked arms.  

“And what do you suggest we do about that?” she questions with a pointed eyebrow raise.  She’s anticipating something along the lines of a dunk in the river followed by a change of clothes, typically prudent and thereby typically Anya.  

There’s a glint in Anya’s eyes, though, and a subtle spark in her scent, that tells Clarke that the Alpha within is beginning to come out to play.

“Nana told me that she made the house ready for us when the messengers informed her we were coming home,” she begins.  “She arranged for a bath to be heated in the washroom since the river is cold today.  She also told me that she brought over some clothes since mine would be rather large on you.  We will get you more at the market tomorrow, but they will do for now.”  Here she pauses, and Clarke reads the uptick in her heartbeat in the flutter of her pulse point.  “I thought we could get ourselves clean and then take a walk in the garden,” she goes on lightly.  “There are a few late raspberries that are still ripe.”  The suggestion is entirely innocent, but there is something about the way she says it that makes Clarke absolutely sure that her intentions are far from innocuous.  

It’s time to up the ante.  

“You could wash my hair for me,” she suggests with a transparent attempt at innocence.  “You know, if you’re getting in the habit of doting on me like this.”  She makes sure to infuse her tone with enough teasing that Anya can back out if she wishes; after all the build-up, Clarke would hate to see this fall apart because she’s being too pushy.  She wants Anya to take care of her, but she wants it to be in Anya’s time. 

Anya’s eyes darken; Clarke squeals as she’s swept up into her arms, and it occurs to her that that time is long overdue.  

The raspberries will have to wait.

* * *

The awed look on Clarke’s face is something Anya will treasure in her memory for years to come.  Her expression is open and soft with curiosity and bright wonder.  Her shoulders have lost their tension, the stress lifting from her brow; she is calm, Anya realizes.  Happy.  It is the first time she has seen Clarke truly at peace.  

From what she understands, it’s the first time in years that she has been.  Anya can see the fear and anxiety and maltreatment lifting off her like a tangible weight.  Clarke has endured a year of solitary confinement for trying to save her people and two months of unwillingly leading said people into war on top of seventeen years of being mistreated. At last, this beautiful woman, this sweet, stubborn, wonderful little Omega, is getting the peace and care that she deserves.  Anya will ensure it.  

As she takes in the little room off the bedroom, hot rocks placed beneath the clawfoot tub filled to the brim with water heated over the iron stove, Clarke’s eyes light up.  A shelf holds a number of towels, and the room is lit by a large window that looks out upon the garden.  Pleased with herself, Anya sends a silent thank you to Alma for her foresight. Then, with a breath deeper than she has drawn in days, she releases the last tension in her shoulders and allows the rest of the world to peel away, leaving nothing but her, the little room, and the Omega in front of her.

The sunlight is golden on Clarke’s skin, catching in the shallow dips and waves of her hair and glinting in her eyes as though off the ocean waves Anya has seen in Luna’s village.  Still clad in the clothing she wore beneath her armor, she is still in the fractured light of the small room.  She is waiting, Anya knows, for directions.  This sort of environment is so wholly new to Clarke that Anya understands she is overstimulated and uncertain.  Nothing about this is similar to what Clarke grew up with.  The tub of water, the steam curling from its surface, the soaps scented with pine, the air and space and the way the light moves; all is brand-new and yet to be explored.  She can feel Clarke taking it all in, straining with every part of her being to experience and understand every part of it.  

“If you would like, little one, I will leave you to bathe while I prepare food for us,” Anya suggests lowly when Clarke continues not to move.  She knows that her own presence in the confined space isn’t helping; she can’t block the wave of eagerness and relief and possessiveness and arousal that’s rolling off her skin.  She can feel Clarke responding to it, relaxing back into the warmth and ease of it.  Still, it’s too much; with all of these new stimuli, she doesn’t expect Clarke to be able to concentrate.  

Clarke, though, shakes her head vehemently at the suggestion, her first sign of attention in minutes.  

“No, please,” she denies quickly.  A little anxious note rises in her scent.  Anya steps forward, letting a soothing rumble roll through her chest in response.  “Stay.   _Beja.”_  The strain in Clarke’s words, more than the Trigedasleng, is what spurs Anya to motion.  Her Omega, her Clarke, who has stayed so stoic and pragmatic through all of their time together, is at last beginning to fall to her knees at the beckoning of her heat.  There is a choked plea caught in the back of Clarke’s throat.  The sound of it, and the sight of Clarke’s trembling fingertips, are what bring Anya to step closer and extend her arms, drawing Clarke into her embrace with a hushed coo.  

Instantly, the Omega melts into her touch.  Her forehead drops against Anya’s collarbone; her fingers cling tightly to the collar of her shirt.  Against Anya’s chest, she lets out a shaky breath.  Anya purrs in response, dropping kisses on the crown of golden hair and allowing the tenderness in her heart to unfold.  

“It is okay to give in, little one,” she murmurs.  Clarke’s breath shudders at the feeling of her lips against the top of her head.  “I will take care of you.”  Clarke trembles almost invisibly at that; it rolls up her spine and shakes her shoulders.  Her breathing is quickening, her eyes dark and hazy.  

“I — ” she heaves out a short breath, then composes herself.  “Anya, it’s — I can’t focus, I don’t know what I need, I . . . ” Clarke trails off helplessly.  Her hands squeeze around Anya’s, pleading.  She lets out a tiny gasp when the Alpha drops her hands and moves her grasp to her waist.  

 _“I_ know what you need.”  It comes out on a low growl.  Anya feels the way she felt on the shores of Floukru lands, dipping her toes in the edge of the water and feeling the ocean pull the sand from beneath her feet.  She’s drowning in everything Clarke is.  Clarke’s lips find the hollow of her throat, and she can’t stop the hitch in her breath at the sensation.  “I will be good to you,” Anya continues on a whisper, and her words are tight and fierce.  “I will give you everything — everything I have.”  Her voice cracks on the last word.  

Clarke heaves out a shuddering breath.  One of her hands drops from the shirt collar to dip beneath it and press over Anya’s heart.  A flash grips Anya, the memory of Clarke curling into her at the boundary of Tondisi as arrows flew.  

“I know you will,” Clarke croons.  “I want you to, _beja.”_  Her whisper curls in Anya’s collarbones; Clarke’s eyes are screwed tightly closed.  Her hand fists into the material of Anya’s shirt with an ironclad grip; fingernails dig into the skin above Anya’s heart, as though seeking to cradle it in a bare palm. _“Alpha, please.”_

The word awakens a fire in Anya’s chest with a snarl.  

She’s moving before either of them can even register it.  Her hold on Clarke’s waist goes from soothing to purposeful; she hefts the Omega into her arms and steers her towards the wall.  Clarke lets out a squeal at being moved, instinctively wrapping her legs around Anya’s waist.  She doesn’t protest as Anya presses her into the wall with her full weight, kissing her deeply as her hands run the length of skin exposed by the bottom of her shirt.  A moan tumbles out of her at the sensation of Anya’s abs pressing hard between her legs.

This is different from their kisses before, no longer sweet and innocent but deep and hungry and possessive.  It lasts only a few moments before Anya breaks it, leaving them both panting, only to snag the hem of Clarke’s shirt and give it a little tug.  At the Alpha’s questioning look, Clarke nods, and raises her arms helpfully as Anya tugs it over her head.  The movement throws them both off balance, but Anya steadies them with an arm around Clarke’s waist and the other framing her head on the wall.  A giggle escapes Clarke at that; against her lips, Anya lets out a little huff of laughter.  

Any lingering amusement, however, is quickly stifled when Clarke gives an unrestrained roll of her hips.  A choked moan cuts off in the back of her throat, and Anya pulls back to study her with heavy eyes.  

A blush burns hot in Clarke’s cheeks, but she doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed.  She meets Anya’s gaze steadily with a look in her eye that’s almost a challenge, and doesn’t break contact even when the low rumble in Anya’s chest makes itself known.  Instead, she rolls her hips again, and Anya’s growl rises higher in her throat.  The arm around Clarke’s waist retreats, to be replaced with a hand that presses, open-palmed, against the soft swell of her belly.  The other hand falls down to grip her hip; with a short movement of her own, Anya coaxes her hips into motion, and Clarke’s back bows with a whimper.    
   
“There you go,” Anya murmurs, tracing her lips up the line of Clarke’s throat.  “Let yourself feel good for me, little one.”  Fingers hot on Clarke’s hip, she guides the Omega against her.  A particularly hard grind of the hips, and Clarke flails, grasping for Anya’s shoulders with a sweet, plaintive little noise that makes the Alpha in Anya’s chest rear up with pride and protectiveness.  Her heart surges with it, and she decides in an instant that all of the waiting, all of the beating around the bush, will be well worth it if she gets to hear that sound again.

That, and if she ever gets to _see_ Clarke.  

Adjusting her weight to keep them balanced, Anya fumbles at the edges of Clarke’s bindings. 

“Can I — may I — ” she stumbles, caught between kisses that steal her breath.  Clarke breaks away to breathe out hard against her lips.  

“Off, get it _off,”_ she insists, arching her back away from the wall to allow for more room.  Anya doesn’t need telling twice; she reaches for the material, and a moment later, tosses it to the side without another glance.  

She feels her heartbeat stutter at the sight that greets her.

Clarke is _gorgeous._  Her skin is soft, golden with a new life in the sun and dusted with freckles.  Her breasts are heavy and full, her nipples a pretty pink; they’re hard with the light chill and the shivery sensation of fingertips along her ribs.  She is breathing hard, pulse fluttering in her neck, and her scent is heavy with heat and arousal.

More than that, her scent is calling out for _Anya,_ and at the sight of the way Clarke preens beneath her gaze, Anya is struck by the visible evidence of how wanted her attention is.  She has _missed_ this.  It has been more than seven years since she has shared an Omega’s heat, and she forgot what it was like to be needed in this way.  She forgot the weight of an Omega’s need for their Alpha, how they flourish beneath the doting and tenderness.  To be able to give that to Clarke, who has gone her whole life without the devoted attention of an Alpha, makes her purr with pride.   

Anya adores this woman beneath her, and she needs her to know it.  

“Beautiful.”  Her whisper comes out shaky as she traces the curves of Clarke’s hips and waist with reverent hands. _“Klark.”_  She can scarcely compose herself to words, but they seem to have an impact all the same.  Clarke’s eyes flutter half-open at her touch, gazing up at her through glazed blue.  There is adoration visible there, in equal measure to what is rising in Anya’s chest, and the Alpha feels the last of her restraint hit the floor with the look of absolute willing surrender in Clarke’s eyes.   _“I am falling for you so hard.”_ Her whisper is choked, broken, against her lips as her hands fumble to pull Clarke closer, closer, until every part of them is touching.  “I did not know it was possible to want anything so much.”  

 _“Ai niron,”_ Clarke whispers back, and lets the sound of the words curl between them and make Anya gasp. _“I am yours.”_

The whispered confession hits Anya harder than she expects.  Hers.  Clarke is hers; her Omega to love and dote upon and cherish.  Clarke, who has been neglected and mistreated and deprived of her true nature for her entire life, has chosen Anya as the one worthy of the gift that is her love and trust and pleasure.  Anya is the one who has given her the care that she deserves. 

“You are mine,” Anya confirms lowly with a flare of possessiveness in her belly.  “I am your Alpha, and I am going to show you all of the wonderful things your people should have taught you about being an Omega.”  

Clarke pouts a little through hazy eyes.  The sight of her struggling to make sense of the world through her heat makes Anya smile a little.  

“Like what?” she mumbles, and it’s not quite petulant, but she’s just needy enough that it’s close.  Anya nudges her chin with her nose until the Omega dazedly meets her eyes.  

“Well, for one thing, there is this.”  She cups Clarke warmly in her hands.  Gently, she brushes her thumb over a stiff nipple; Clarke inhales sharply.  Anya rolls her nipple between her fingers, watching almost in contemplation.  “Omegas are built for pleasure, you know.”  She emphasizes the words with a little twist of her fingers, and Clarke arches into her with a mewl.  Her eyes flutter closed again.  Anya ducks her head to wrap her lips around her other nipple, and Clarke’s whimper breaks.  

The sound stirs something in Anya.  Shifting her weight, she hefts Clarke away from the wall and back onto the floor.  She continues to hold her close as she sets her down, grasping for the Omega’s hips; when Clarke jolts wordlessly toward her with pleading hands, she coos softly at her in reassurance.  

“I am not going anywhere, _strikon,”_ she promises, sinking to her knees.  “I only want to get us into the bath.”  She busies herself with the untying of Clarke’s boots as she explains; the Omega kicks a little in frustration.  

“But I want you _now,”_ Anya hears her grumble petulantly.  Glancing up, she sees that Clarke is watching her with a pout.  Grinning a little, she eases the Omega out of her boots and reaches up to toy with the button of her pants.  

“You will have me soon enough, little one,” she assures her.  She flicks at the button.  “May I?”  Clarke is nodding before the words are even fully out of her mouth.  Smiling at her eagerness, Anya makes quick work of the pants, tugging them down Clarke’s legs and helping her step out of them before discarding them in the corner.  

At last, Clarke is bare before her, the soft glow of the late afternoon sun highlighting scar-littered pale skin and gentle curves.  Anya feels her eyes soften at the sight.  Clarke is beautiful, strong where two months on the ground have required fighting and running for survival.  Clarke is no warrior, but she’s not one to tangle with either, as Anya has found, and she wears the badges of her battles like a Trikru warrior’s scars.  The marks that are most visible on her shoulder and thigh, the last to heal, show where she took arrows meant for Anya at the boundary of Tondisi.

All of Clarke’s wounds are from protecting other people; it’s about time that someone took care of her in return.  

Tracing her hands reverently up strong legs, Anya lets herself linger.  She nuzzles into the side of Clarke’s knee, pauses to run her fingers up firm calves and feel the outline of the muscles there.  She presses her lips, slightly parted, to Clarke’s inner thigh.  Her eyes fall closed; her lips find the joint of Clarke’s hips, where soft skin is even softer, and linger there, lips hot and wet against the tender skin.  

The sensation of fingers in her hand snag her attention; reluctantly, she cranes her neck and blinks into the sunlight.  Clarke is watching her with a look in her eyes that is almost painfully soft.  

“You know,” Clarke comments, and Anya can hear the wobble of need in her voice, “you’re a little overdressed for the occasion.”  The accompanying smirk Clarke sends her is a little shaky — compounded, Anya knows, by the fact that she is continuing to plant open-mouthed kisses to warm thighs.  Still, her point is clear, and taking it, Anya rises fluidly to her feet.  

She has her own clothes shucked off with a rapidity that, judging by their dazedness, is a little too much for Clarke’s heatbrain eyes to follow.  Before the Omega can even take in the image of her standing there, she’s back in her space and kissing her with a firm grasp on her jaw.  

Clarke is easy to kiss, Anya has decided; fun.  She kisses like she’s fully invested, like Anya is a cause to which she has dedicated herself to as wholly as she possibly can.  She submits without being too lenient, pressing back into Anya just as eagerly.  Her nails run the length of Anya’s arms as they kiss and dig in slightly whenever something feels particularly good.  Grazing her lip with teeth earns a whimper; curling their tongues together evokes a moan.  

“Watch your step.”  So close together, it doesn’t exactly come out perfectly intelligible.  Eyes still closed, Clarke begins to mumble out a confused response, but is interrupted with a tiny sound of surprise when the backs of her legs hit the edge of the tub.  Anya takes a moment to kiss her, distracted, before pulling reluctantly away.  She grasps Clarke’s arms, then pets over her hips, her waist, unable to settle, too mesmerized to stop touching her.  

There is so much soft skin, so many ways to coax sweet little sounds from Clarke’s lips.  It’s a kind of paradise that Anya has never experienced before.  Each touch draws more need and magnetizes the air between them; Clarke leans into her wherever her hands linger, pleading for more.  As Anya cradles the soft swell of her breasts, her nipples tighten against the Alpha’s palms.  Despite the urge to act further, Anya takes a moment to simply hold her, feeling the weight in her hands.  In fascination, she traces her fingers around taut nipples and watches them harden further.  Her cock gives a dull throb at the sight.  

“Don’t get all speechless on me,” Clarke mumbles through her daze when Anya shows no sign of letting up.  “I feel like you’re into dirty talk, and I didn’t totally expect that from you, but I’m definitely into it.”  

Anya barks out a laugh.  

“Is that so?” she queries playfully.  She’s itching to get her mouth back on Clarke’s breast, but she’s torn between wanting her tongue wrapped around those pretty nipples and wanting to tease the Omega a little more.  Clarke huffs in response, and before Anya can react, seizes the Alpha’s hand and drags it down her stomach to press between her legs.  

The sound that escapes both of them is strangled, and would be amusing were Anya not so rabidly turned on.  

Clarke is hot, and soft, and so wet that Anya’s fingers slip clumsily as the Omega releases her wrist.  The motion wrenches a choked moan from Clarke’s chest; it prompts Anya to surge toward her.  In the next instant, she’s sucking a bruise into Clarke’s pulse point as the Omega lurches against her.  Feeling the flutter of the heartbeat beneath her lips, Anya adjusts her wrist; gently, she strokes her fingers through silken heat.  Her cock twitches hard against Clarke’s thigh.  It’s not her intent to rile Clarke up, merely to explore, but the oversensitivity brought by her heat makes Clarke shiver and then clutch at Anya’s arms with a whiny gasp.  

“Take me to bed,” is the strained plea, and the words make their way down Anya’s spine in a shiver.  Still nuzzling the shell of Clarke’s ear, she hums thoughtfully.

“The bath — ”

“Fuck the bath.”  Clarke cuts her off with eyes alight with hunger.  “We’re going to need another one after, anyway.  I’ve wanted you for _weeks,_ Anya.  You can fuss over me for as long as you want after you mate me, but right now, I need my Alpha to stop stalling and _take me._  Show me how a good Alpha takes care of their Omega, starting with how many times you can make me come.”  

Gobsmacked, Anya stares at her for a moment.  Clarke’s eyes are flashing with persistence and desperation, her brow pinched with need.  Her lips tremble; she’s running her hands up and down the firm muscles of Anya’s arms.  She presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to Anya’s sternum as the Alpha struggles to respond.  Her lips are hot, wet, and the feeling of them so near her breasts makes Anya shiver.  Clarke appears to be running on instinct, nudging their hips together to feel Anya’s stiffening cock rub against her thighs.  

“Alpha,” Clarke breathes, and Anya’s heart lurches again at the title.   _“Please._ Let me show you that I’m yours.”  She tilts her neck as she says it, baring her scent and pulse for her Alpha in a sign of submission, and Anya’s breath catches.  Clarke’s brilliant blue eyes shine up at her, honest and pleading and so, so wanting, and the scent and sight of her submission is so overwhelming that Anya swallows hard to suppress tears.  

It has been so long since she has felt another’s touch.  Nearly two summers have passed since she and Lexa shared a bed in the wake of Costia’s death.  Since then, there has been no one else, and sex with Lexa was always more about comfort and companionship than pleasure.  Anya hasn’t known a lover in so long, and never one that has loved her so fiercely, so fully.  Trikru Alphas mate for life, and this Omega has chosen her as her beloved, to honor and to cherish and to treasure for all her life.  This Omega is gazing up at her with eyes shining with hope and heat and love deeper than Anya has ever seen.  She is pleading for Anya to take care of her, to love her, to _claim_ her, and Anya finds that the temptation is no longer one she can resist.    

Clarke is slicker than ever where Anya cups her heat, and slipping her fingers deeper, Anya strokes her clit and she lets the Omega feel the press of her teeth against her pulse. Clarke leans into Anya with a little cry.  She rests her forehead in the crook of the Alpha’s neck; her eyes are screwed shut, her lips parted as she draws a shaky breath.

“You want to show me that you are mine?” Anya parrots on a murmur.  “You want me to give you what you need, Omega?”  She can see how the word affects Clarke, how her shoulders shiver in anticipation.  Nevertheless, after kissing Anya’s collarbone with enough drag of her teeth to leave a bruise, Clarke pulls back with a look in her eyes that is positively mischievous beneath the need.  

“I want you to give me everything,” is her lilting murmur, and Anya is pulling her out of the bathroom and down the hall before she can utter another word.

* * *

As soon as the bedroom door closes behind them, Clarke pushes Anya up against it and sinks to her knees.  

There’s a muffled sound of protest from above, their kiss having been broken, but Clarke pays it no mind as she settles kneeling on the wooden floor.  The hardwood presses into her joints unforgivingly, but she decides after quick consideration that she can’t give less of a damn.  The entirety of her focus has been arrested by the sight of Anya bare and wanting before her.  

If Clarke felt any vulnerability when she first undressed, it has long since vanished.  They have seen each other in various states of undress before, after all.  Actual nudity might be a new step for them, but with everything else they’ve been through, Clarke thinks it hardly matters.

Anya is absurdly attractive.  

Her legs are long and golden, strong; her abdomen clenches with smooth planes of muscle.  Her cock is long, and thicker than Clarke is expecting.  The tender head throbs, shiny and slick with a hint of precum.  Her knot isn’t swelling yet, but Clarke knows that with heat pheromones suffusing the air, it’s only a matter of time.  

The thought of Anya’s knot stretching her open, _filling_ her, makes Clarke choke back a moan of longing.   

To stifle it, she leans forward, nosing into the cleft of Anya’s hip.  The scent of her Alpha’s arousal is strong there, heady and potent.  Clarke nips delicately at the soft skin; above her, a tight gasp escapes Anya’s lips.  She soothes it by running her hands up the Alpha’s legs, reverently noting the strength in the muscles of her thighs.  Unable to help herself, she reaches further, moving her hands up to appreciatively cradle the firm butt.  

“Enjoying yourself?”  Anya sounds a bit strangled.  Leaning her head back, Clarke gazes up at her with sparkling eyes.  Anya is watching her with the set of her lips soft, wide eyes pretty and dark with arousal. 

“I was thinking,” Clarke answers, giving toned ass cheeks a squeeze and earning another shallow gasp, “that you deserve a reward for being so good to me.”  She lets her voice grow rough with the weight of her intentions, and sees Anya’s expression flicker when comprehension dawns.  

“You do not have to do that for me,” she says softly.  Her hand threads through Clarke’s hair, nails scratching at her scalp, and Clarke is seized by the sudden desire to have her tighten her hold and pull.  Coughing a little on the whimper that threatens to escape, she shuffles slightly closer and lets her eyelashes flutter as she gazes up at Anya from beneath them.  

“But I _want_ to.  I want to make my Alpha feel good.”  She infuses the whisper with as much promise as she can, but a sudden seizing  of heat cramps low in her belly makes it a little choked.  Clearly sensing the rush of pheromones, Anya’s brow pinches slightly.  Her fingertips rub soothingly at the nape of Clarke’s neck.  “And by the way,” Clarke continues, lowering her voice, “to answer the question you asked me yesterday . . . I do like being your good girl.”  A tightening of the fingers in her hair announces Anya’s reaction; the Alpha opens her mouth to respond, but, anticipating it, Clarke surges abruptly forward. 

Anya’s head falls back against the door with a thunk, whatever words she was going to utter cut off by a whimper as Clarke drops a tender kiss on the head of her cock. Encouraged by the sound, Clarke scoots closer and allows her eyes to close as she devotes herself to giving her mate the pleasure she deserves.

Her tongue traces the swollen head, flickering into the little divot and making Anya buck her hips with a mewl.  Humming at her reaction, Clarke takes her deeper into her mouth.  The Alpha’s taste is subtle, musky and light.  Her cock is heavy on Clarke’s tongue, and Clarke revels in the feel of it; the warmth of Anya’s thighs and hands and the way the muscles of her belly tremble.  

Anya’s hands clutch desperately in her hair as she works her steadily toward the edge.  When Clarke yawns her throat open and swallows her full length, she lurches forward with a sharp cry.  

 _“Klark!”_ Fluttering her eyes open, Clarke sees the way that Anya’s lips tremble, her brow pinched with pleasure.  Swallowing, she lets her throat flutter around Anya’s cock, and watches the way her eyes grow hazy.  

It makes Clarke’s belly flutter with possessiveness and awe to see her Alpha let go this way.  Anya is so beautiful, so doting; she has been so lonely, Clarke knows, for so long. It’s only fair that she should know how much Clarke appreciates how good she has been to her.  Anya deserves to feel good, to be treasured the same way she treasures Clarke. Clarke wants, _needs,_ for her to know how deeply loved she is.  

It doesn’t take long to bring Anya close to the edge.  The Alpha’s breathing soon grows shallow, and whimpers tumble from her lips with every movement of Clarke’s throat. When Clarke pulls back to suckle on her gently, cradling her balls with a gentle hand, Anya crumples against the door with a whine.  The sound is high-pitched and breathy, and so pretty that Clarke hollows her cheeks and sucks harder with a flick of her tongue across the head of her cock.  

Anya is so close.  Clarke can feel it in the tremble of her thighs, the twitching of her fingers in her hair.  Her whole body is tight and tense.  Still, she seems to be hanging on, reluctant, and when she bites back another sweet sound, Clarke decides that she’s having none of it.  

Releasing her with a soft, obscene noise, Clarke cradles her cock in one hand and begins to lavish sweet kisses up and down her length.  She splays her other hand across Anya’s belly, feeling the clench of her abs with every kiss.  

She knows her eyes are big when she looks up at Anya from under fluttering lashes.  

“Is my pretty Alpha gonna come for me?” she coos, and Anya meets her eyes with a startled jolt.    Clarke continues to stroke her, giving her just enough pressure that she shakes.  Instinctively, Clarke continues to speak, seeing the way that her words make Anya’s eyes grow dark.  “You’re so beautiful, and I want you to feel _so_ good.  I’m yours, and I want to give you _everything._  I love you so much, sweetheart; let me give this to you.”  

“Klark,” Anya gasps.  Her hands clutch shakily at Clarke’s hair. _“Klark.”_

“Good,” Clarke whispers, and feels Anya’s body begin to tremble against her hands.  “Come on, _niron._  Let go for me.”  She punctuates the words by taking Anya fully back into her throat, letting the press of her cock against her tongue overwhelm her, and swallows hard.  Anya jerks, then shivers, and then her body is curling over Clarke as she comes with a choked, broken cry. 

Clarke closes her eyes with a hum as Anya breaks, surrendering to the feeling and letting her warmth fill her throat.  She takes everything Anya has to give, and then, when Anya’s hips gives one last spasm, stands quickly and takes her weight as her knees go weak.  When at last Anya seems to get feeling back into her limbs, she leans up to look at the Omega with eyes softer than Clarke has ever seen.  

Reaching up, she wipes Clarke’s mouth tenderly, then kisses her deeply and with a passion that takes Clarke’s breath away.

“Do you really love me?”  The whisper is almost inaudible against Clarke’s lips.  Leaning her forehead into Anya’s, she feels the hesitant tremble of her jaw.  

“So much,” is her equally soft confession.   _“Ai hod yu in, Anya.”_  A sharp intake of breath, and the powerful surge of Alpha pheromones makes Clarke’s legs shake beneath her weight.  

Anya is pressing into her, urging her to lie on her back on the floor, before she can speak another word.  Clarke obeys, going boneless beneath her.  In an instant, warm, strong hands are gripping her thighs, dragging them over broad shoulders, and then Anya is nosing into her cunt and licking into her with such insistence that Clarke’s back bows off the floor.

* * *

The feeling of Anya’s tongue in her cunt takes Clarke so much by surprise that it wrenches a startled cry from her chest.  Her Alpha is pinning her down, one arm gripping her leg and the other hand pressing down firmly on her belly.  Heat surges beneath Anya’s skin at the sound, low in her abdomen and up to her heart.  A purr rises from her throat into slick folds, and Clarke scrabbles wildly for her shoulders, her hair, settling finally with intertwining their fingers on her belly as the pleasure surges.  

The feeling of Clarke is unlike anything Anya has ever experienced.  She allows the world to melt away as the woman beneath her arches into her.  Clarke’s cunt is soft and hot against her lips, wet beyond belief; struggling to find friction, Anya curls her tongue in.  She presses open-mouthed kisses into her, leisurely, making Clarke shake with need as she acquaints herself with her body.  Her eyes flutter half-closed at the taste of her Omega, heady and earthy-sweet on her tongue.  

She learns quickly that filthy kisses to Clarke’s clit make her cry out, while sucking on it earns a strangled whimper.  When she adds pressure to the heel of her hand on Clarke’s belly, the Omega squeaks.  Anya nuzzles into her happily into her at the sound, reveling in the way Clarke’s body jolts at the motion.  

She’s granted her no real rhythm, too invested in learning the feel of every part of Clarke beneath her lips.  She can feel, though, that her Omega is growing desperate.  Clarke is writhing beneath her, pleading whimpers breaking from her chest with every pass of Anya’s tongue.  Her scent is heavy with heat; it has hit her hard, Anya realizes.  Despite her earlier teasing, the full weight of Clarke’s submission is upon her.  As Anya licks in deeper, searching out the soft spot she can’t quite reach with her tongue, Clarke flails, her hips falling open further in a wordless plea.  

Anya curls her tongue around her clit, and something in Clarke seems to break.  Her Omega scrabbles for her with trembling hands, instinctively seeking out her Alpha’s touch.  

 _“Anya.”_  Her name wrenches from Clarke’s lips on a strangled sound that’s almost a sob. “Alpha, _please_ _.”_  A quick glance up at her tells Anya that she’s nearly in tears.  Clarke’s features are twisted, caught up in pleasure, her eyes hazy and full.  

Anya decides to take pity on her.  

In an instant, she’s pulling away, causing a whine of protest to leave Clarke’s lips.  Moving up her body to brace herself on her elbows, Anya soothes the sound with a gentle kiss.  Clarke surges into her, small beneath the shelter of her stronger frame.  Anya arches downward in response, letting her feel the press of smaller breasts against her own.  

 _“Shusha,_ little one,” Anya soothes.  “Let me take care of you.”  Slipping a hand beneath Clarke’s neck, she cradles the base of her skull with gentle fingers, guiding her into a deeper kiss and flickering her tongue between soft lips.  Immediately, Clarke tangles their tongues together; she can taste herself, Anya knows, and the groan that it pulls from the Omega’s chest makes her head spin.  Instinctively, she lets her weight drop onto her, possessive.  

Clarke whines, but before she can plead again for Anya’s touch, two fingers are pressing slowly into her cunt.  

The sound that it tears from Clarke’s lips is rough and primal.  She surges into Anya’s lips, clutching at her shoulders with desperate hands.  Pulling back to rest their foreheads together, Anya blinks her eyes open and meets dazed blue.  

“Is that what you needed?” she murmurs.  Clarke’s eyes are too hazy to focus properly, glassy, lashes fluttering as slender fingers slip deeper.  “You needed me to fuck you with my hands?”  She emphasizes it with a hard grind of her palm against a swollen clit, and the sudden arch of Clarke’s back nearly throws her off.  

Restraining a smirk, Anya buries her fingers to the knuckle and gives them a little twist.  

 _“Anya!”_  Clarke’s eyes are wild, the bow of her back pressing her breasts up into Anya’s harder than before.  She’s let her head fall to one side, baring her neck.  Anya knows what she wants.  Burying her nose against the swollen scent gland, she swallows back the urge to bite.  She will mark her Omega, but not yet.  Not until they’re tied and Clarke is unquestionably _hers._  

Instead, she pulses her fingers deeper, letting Clarke feel the hard throb of them into her cunt.  Her Omega opens beautifully for her, pulling Anya so deep that her fingertips brush her cervix.  Velvet walls clench around her; eyes rolling back at the sensation, Anya withdraws and fucks back into her with three fingers.  Clarke whines.  The whine turns into a broken whimper when Anya’s fingers curl to press the soft spot deep within her.  Pleased with the reaction, Anya flutters her fingers against it and fucks into her in earnest.  

Sweet, needy sounds break from Clarke’s mouth as long, lovely fingers stretch her open.  Anya’s thrusts are slow but hard, the heel of her hand rubbing her clit with every stroke.  Anya can feel the way the Omega melts beneath her, so receptive to her touch.  Curling over her, she kisses her deeply, coaxing a purr from Clarke’s chest.  When she breaks away, Clarke’s eyes are screwed shut, her mouth pinched as her bottom lip trembles.   

“Does that feel good, little one?” Anya coos, and Clarke sobs beneath her when her Alpha finds again that special spot that brings stars into her eyes.  “That feels good, huh?” The wet thrust of fingers into her cunt is making it hard for Clarke to focus.  Her breathing is harsh, chest and belly taut with need, and oh, Anya wants to see this woman break. “What do you want, _ai niron?”_  She murmurs it against the frantic beating of the pulse in the base of Clarke’s throat.  “Tell your Alpha what you need.”  A hard grind of knuckles at her entrance, and Clarke gasps.

“I need — I need — ”

“You want to come for me so I can fuck you like you really want?”  On any other day, the blatant filth of the words would make Anya blush.  She has been raised with propriety, but with Clarke wet and writhing beneath her, the Alpha within her heart has broken free.  It has been years since she has allowed it to take over, years since she has had a reason to let herself go.  Anya has forgotten what it’s like to let her Alpha side fully loose.  The words fall from her lips on instinct, her voice dropping to a croon.  “You going to get all wet for me so you can take my knot?”  Her cock throbs with the thought; her knot isn’t yet forming, but her belly is tensed with the want that has settled low in her hips. The thought of burying her knot in tight heat makes her muscles clench.  

Clarke gasps.  With one last pulse of Anya’s fingers, fluttering walls clench hard, and Clarke arches with a strangled cry.  

It takes a long minute for her to come down, Anya’s fingers still buried in her heat.  Anya presses soft kisses to her hairline, her cheekbones; her lips.  She finds that she is whispering to the Omega, murmuring soothing words into her temples as Clarke’s purr deepens and settles in her bones.  When at last Clarke regains her breath, she presses their foreheads together with a shaky laugh.  

Anya scrunches her nose.

“What is so funny?” she wants to know.  Clarke only nestles closer with a breathless chuckle.  

“We didn’t even make it to the bed,” she explains as she rubs her nose against Anya’s scent gland.  Anya cracks a smile.  They’ve both come on the floor with the bed mere steps away.  No doubt Clarke’s back will be sore tomorrow.  

Thinking of other ways to make her ache, Anya feels her eyes darken.  

“That can be easily amended,” she promises knowingly.  Clarke’s heartbeat stutters.  At the sound of it, Anya pulls back.  The need in Clarke’s eyes is reflected in her own.  

She has her arms under Clarke before the Omega can react, lifting her easily.  Adjusting to the added weight, she carries her the few short steps to the bed; when she deposits her on the mattress, Clarke rolls instantly into the furs.  Anya crawls up after her, careful to brace her elbows so that Clarke can feel the comfort of her weight without being crushed.  She kisses her, slow and deep, taking a moment to simply feel the warmth of their connection.  

Clarke is so open, so beautifully responsive.  She melts into Anya, accepting the tender touches with a pliant submissiveness that sends a shiver up Anya’s spine.  The Omega is warm and soft beneath her; purrs rumble in her chest and up into her throat.  Her heartbeat thunders in Anya’s ears.  The Alpha grinds down into her, letting her feel the weight of her cock against her swollen clit.  

The twitch of Clarke’s hips makes Anya hide her face in a warm shoulder with a smile.  

“Anya.”  She feels more than hears Clarke’s murmur, it’s so low.  “You going to fuck me like I really want, or do I have to beg you for it?”  There’s enough of a teasing note in her voice that Anya chuckles at the repetition of her own words, but the last part makes something dark settle in her chest.  Instinctively, she drags her teeth against Clarke’s scent gland.  

“You can beg me if you want,” she says roughly.  Clarke hisses at the scrape of her teeth against tender skin.  A shudder runs through her body at the words; against her cock, Anya can feel her become wetter.  The hot slide of her length through swollen folds makes her jaw clench.  

Clarke wraps a leg around her back and rolls her hips, grinding wetly against her cock.  

“Please, Alpha,” Clarke rasps as Anya’s eyes roll back.  “Give me what I need.”  

A snarl breaks loose from Anya’s chest.  Surging forward, she cradles Clarke’s shoulders and urges her to sit up.  A scramble of limbs, and she has the Omega in her lap.  At this angle, Clarke is bracing herself on Anya’s chest, cock slipping through her folds.  She’s heavier like this, her body more lax and open, and Anya takes a moment to appreciate the sight of her, the softness of her belly and the weight of her hips.  Clarke is beautiful, all curves and glowing skin.  The urgent pheromones draw Anya in, stoking tenderness in her heart along with the possessive thrill of want. 

Seized by sudden, overwhelming desire, Anya grasps for her hips.  She tugs Clarke against her, makes sure that she is comfortably settled, and then slowly eases her down.  

The feeling of wet heat enveloping her cock tears a shaky moan from Anya’s throat.  Clarke is so tight that for a moment Anya is afraid of hurting her.  But her Omega is wet, and wanting, and overcome by her heat; and aided by gravity, she sinks slowly down.  Anya hisses as she bottoms out, slick walls squeezing around her cock as she takes Clarke’s full weight.  Clarke has gone quiet above her; her eyes are stunned when Anya looks up at her.  Tenderly, Anya cradles her cheek, feeling her Omega breathe into her shakily.  

Then Anya moves, and the sweet, shuddering cry rolls out of Clarke like a wave.  

It takes every ounce of Anya’s restraint to not come immediately.  Clarke is so sweet around her, wet and tight and needy.  She rolls her hips with Anya’s, the soft drag of the head of her cock almost unbearable.  With each thrust of Anya’s hips, she nudges the soft swell of Clarke’s cervix, earning a stifled whimper.  Clarke’s face is buried in her neck, mouthing desperately at her scent gland.  

Leaving one arm around her waist to guide her, Anya fumbles with her other hand, cupping Clarke’s breast and finding her nipple.  She toys with it, kissing her way down Clarke’s chest to wrap her lips around her other nipple and offer her a flash of teeth.  Her Omega curls into the pleasure that furls up her spine, and _oh,_ Anya forgot; she forgot what it was like to give like this, to bring an Omega pleasure when she needs her Alpha so deeply.  To provide for this beautiful creature in her arms, and to give her all the pleasure she has to give, fills her heart with fierce joy.  Her Alpha instincts, while they urge her to pin her mate down and breed, simultaneously fill her with an insistent need to make Clarke feel as good as she possibly can.  

With that in mind, Anya leans forward, guiding Clarke down to lie on her back, and gives her Omega what she needs.  

Clarke clings to her, arms and legs wrapped tightly around her.  She’s pliant beneath her, but it takes all of Anya’s effort not to lose control completely and rut into her like an animal.  So deep in her heat, Clarke will want it rough, she knows, but she’s still so _tight._  Anya’s lips on her nipple coax a flood of wetness from her, and Anya’s hips shake as her cock drives into the slick.  Clarke is gasping, belly heaving as Anya buries herself deep and stays there, grinding their hips together to nudge her clit.  She presses her face into Clarke’s breasts, loving their softness, feeling the Omega’s heart race.  

Taking a moment to breathe, Anya pauses, then grasps Clarke’s thigh and props her leg higher, reaching new depths and slamming into the sweet spot that makes Clarke gasp.  A sharp grind of her hips, and she fucks into her hard and slow, letting her mate feel the steady drag of her cock through her tight heat.  

“Oh _god,”_ Clarke chokes out.  She’s trembling now, clearly overwhelmed by the compounded sensations of Anya’s lips and hands and cock. _“Anya.”_  Her name is a broken sob on Clarke’s lips as her Omega curls into her chest when Anya moves just right.  An overwhelming wave of pleasure steals the breath from her lungs.  “Take me, knot me, _Alpha,_ please, _please.”_  Clarke’s world has narrowed to the beautiful woman who has given her so much; to the fierce, soul-deep pleasure that brings stars into her eyes.  In this moment, Anya is her entire world.  

She’s close, Anya knows; she won’t last long, and at this point, neither will Anya.  She can feel her knot swelling now, throbbing hard at the base of her cock.  Even as half of her yearns to coax Clarke over the edge with tender kisses and gentle hands, the Alpha within her screams at her to claim her mate.  Clarke is in heat, and Anya is her Alpha, and there is a warm, wet cunt pleading for her knot.  Clarke is begging for it, begging to be bred, to be stretched and tied and filled with Anya’s seed; begging Anya to fuck a baby into her belly.

Anya sees no reason to deny her what she wants.  

“On your knees for me,” she directs through gritted teeth as a particularly hard snap of her hips sends Clarke spiraling on a new wave of pleasure.  As fucked-out as Clarke is, it takes her words a moment to register, but when they do, a moan tells Anya that her suggestion is well-received.  Clarke props herself up on her elbows immediately.  The change in angle causes the head of Anya’s cock to catch on the little ridge of sensitive flesh just inside her entrance, and Clarke falls back with another moan.  

In the end, it takes Anya pulling out and guiding Clarke by her shoulders to flip her over.  Shakily, Clarke gets to her knees, propping herself up on her elbows.  She leans her head on her hands, and from behind her, Anya can see the dazed, blissed-out expression on her face.  When Clarke arches her hips up, the Alpha growls and presses down on her lower back, coaxing her ass up and her back into a beautiful bow.  

The sight makes her suddenly breathless.

Spread out on the furs, Clarke’s skin shines in the glow of the setting sun.  Her lips are parted, her breasts heaving with her breath where they’re pressed into the mattress. She’s wet and open, labia swollen and glistening with her need.  Her back is scattered with freckles, and the arch of her spine and hips is so pretty that it makes Anya’s heart ache.

A wave of tenderness for the beautiful woman in her bed steals over her.  Clarke is so gorgeous, so sweet and needy and trusting.  Anya knows that to submit is in an Omega’s instincts, but for Clarke to give herself up to Anya, trusting her to take care of her and bring her pleasure, is an honor all the same.  Gently, Anya presses her thumbs between the swollen petals of the Omega’s pussy, spreading her open to expose her pink clit.  She can’t resist leaning forward to kiss the little bud, dipping her tongue into the tightness of Clarke’s pussy and nosing into her soft labia.  

Clarke cries out for her, softly, brokenly, and Anya’s heart swells with love.  Tenderly, she nuzzles the soft skin, breathing in the musky scent of her mate.  

“You are beautiful,” she says quietly when she has pulled back to kiss at the Omega’s hip.  Clarke huffs out a breathless little laugh.

“I’m on my belly ready for you to mount me, and that’s what you say to me?”  Anya combats her teasing with a playful nip to the back of her thigh.  Clarke squeals, and they share a quiet laugh.  

It’s soon stifled when Anya rises to her knees and the length of her cock nudges Clarke’s clit.  

“My good girl,” Anya murmurs, and watches Clarke’s back shudder.  Gently, she brushes her hands along the sides of Clarke’s breasts, feeling their soft weight.  “So ready for me.”  

“So ready,” Clarke agrees on a breathless whine.  “Anya . . .”  

Her words are cut off when Anya’s fingers dig into her hips and she begins to press herself in.

* * *

Clarke’s mouth falls open as the head of Anya’s cock breaches her entrance.  It was one thing on her back, when she could wrap her legs around her Alpha, but this new angle is so much deeper and more intimate.  Anya’s cock is thick, the head stretching her achingly open; once it has slipped inside, the smooth glide of her length plunging deep makes Clarke gasp.  

Anya is thick and heavy in her cunt, and when she bottoms out, their pelvises knocking together, Clarke’s eyes close on a harsh exhale.  The ache of being stretched settles into her bones.  The knowledge that she is bent over on display for her Alpha, helpless to do anything but take her, adds another layer of thrill to her pleasure.  Anya pulls out slowly, the drag of her ridged cock catching on Clarke’s g-spot, before slamming herself back in with a force that tears a cry from Clarke’s throat.  When Anya increases the pressure on her lower back and buries herself deeper, Clarke can’t restrain a sob. 

“Oh, little one, I know,” Anya murmurs into her hair.  “Let yourself feel good.”  Another firm, unrelenting pulse against her cervix, and Clarke surrenders herself to being taken.  

Her Alpha pins her to the bed, one arm slung low across her belly, holding her in place as she takes her in slow, powerful thrusts that shake Clarke to her core.  Anya’s fingers reaching around to play with her nipple only deepens the heat spreading from her belly through her veins.  A gush of wetness leaves her at that, and she knows that her thighs must be shiny with evidence of her arousal.  In any other situation, she might be embarrassed, but the possessive rutting of Anya’s cock into her erases any traces of shyness.  

Instead, with her cunt shivering around her Alpha’s dick, Clarke gives herself up to the surging waves of pleasure that turn her body and her heart into a shivering mess.  She mewls when Anya twists her nipples, arches back to meet powerful hips.  She is reduced to a pleading, broken thing, a vessel for all the pleasure and love that Anya is willing to give her.  

In her haze, Clarke vaguely registers that Anya is no longer taking her as deeply, accompanied by the feeling of something nudging against her entrance.  When Anya hisses and grinds her hips into her wetness, she realizes that the Alpha has popped her knot.  

The thought causes a new rush of warmth between her thighs, and Clarke instinctively drops her spine lower, bowing her back so that Anya can fuck her deeper.  

“Knot me,” she chokes out through a cresting wave of pleasure.  The stutter of Anya’s hips against her lets her know that she’s been heard.  Clarke breathes out a pitchy cry at the feeling and tightens her fists in the furs.  She can sense the aggressive rush of pheromones, the possessiveness and joy and need radiating off of Anya’s skin.  Still, the Alpha hesitates, slowing her thrusts to rock minutely into her.  Clarke nearly cries.  “Anya, _knot me,”_ she pleads, and uses the last of her strength to widen her knees even further.   _“Fill me, Alpha; teik ai in.”_

Whether it’s the plea, the Trigedasleng, or Anya finally giving up the last of her control, something about Clarke’s words finally does it.  

A breath, a heartbeat, and then Anya’s fingers are reaching down, parting her, dipping into Clarke’s entrance alongside her cock to gather wetness and spread it up her length. Her thrusts slow, her knot brushing up against Clarke’s pussy.  Clarke wills her body to relax.  She drops her head onto the furs, breathing deeply through her nose.  Anya strokes through her to toy with her clit; the action causes jolts of electricity to sing up and down Clarke’s spine.  Letting gravity press her back down even further, Clarke lowers her belly to the furs and offers herself up, willing herself to blossom open for her Alpha.  

Anya’s knot presses hard against her entrance.  It’s bigger than anything Clarke has ever taken, she knows, significantly so, but she’s not afraid that it will hurt.  Anya has been so loving with her, and she feels so _good._  Clarke pushes eagerly back to urge her Alpha in.  Anya grinds their hips together, petting her hands over her breasts and her belly and her clit.

Then, all at once, she gives a slow shove of her hips, and her knot slips fully inside.  

Clarke chokes out a startled cry, and Anya croons, a hand warm on her belly and one gently stroking her clit.  She braces herself against Clarke’s ass as the Omega’s body threatens to collapse and drapes herself along her back to murmur into her hair.  

“Can you come for me, little one?”  Clarke flails, eyes squeezed closed as the Alpha presses her knot deeper into her tight channel.  “You’re such a good, _good_ girl for me, Klark. _Miya gon ai.”_

Something close to a scream wrenches from behind Clarke’s teeth.  Stars break out behind her eyes, pleasure flooding her bones from where the knot pulls a sharp ache from her cunt.  It courses like fire through her limbs, up through her belly and her blood, and when it reaches her heart, Clarke finally breaks.

She sobs through it, chest heaving, body breaking with the overpowering wave of pleasure.  The feeling is overwhelming; Clarke has no choice but to yield to it, heart slamming, Anya’s sweet, gasping voice in her ears.  Her cunt squeezes down on Anya’s knot so hard it hurts, but the feeling only catches in the magic racing through her blood.  It snags somewhere in her belly, and Clarke is coming again.  There is no room in her body even to breathe; distantly, she registers that Anya is rutting into her again, desperately held so deep by her knot that there is hardly any space left to move.  She seizes Clarke’s hips, caging her against her own.

The feeling of fingertips bruising into her flesh makes Clarke lift her head with unseeing eyes.  

 _“Bite me!”_ Clarke gasps desperately through the waves that wrack her body.  “Anya, bite me, _beja.”_  

She doesn’t have to beg twice.  Draped over her back, Anya’s mouth finds the spot where Clarke’s pulse flutters frantically beneath her skin.  Clarke’s breath hitches.

Then Anya’s teeth close on smooth skin, and Clarke buries her face in the furs with a choked sob of relief and joy.  Fierce pleasure rushes through her, stealing the breath as it hits the back of her throat.  A cool, earthy scent arrests her senses; pine and new wood, war, and something deeper and less defined.  Visions slam into her chest and swim behind her eyes — a crackling fire, a carved rocking chair, the clash of swords, a little girl in armor with braids and bright green eyes — the drop ship, the fire, Mount Weather, _Clarke._  The feeling of connection, of belonging, wraps tightly around her heart.  

The second Anya releases her, Clarke turns, craning her neck, and sinks her teeth into the Alpha’s throat.  Alpha lets out a sharp whine.  Her body tenses, eyes fluttering, and _god,_ Clarke wants to feel her come.  The pleasure is cresting again, even though it hasn’t fully settled, and oh, Clarke wants her, wants her knot and her cum and her pups in her belly.  

“Give me pups?” Clarke’s innocent little plea makes Anya’s body jolt.  “Please, Alpha; fill me up?”  

A shaken fumble of gentle hands, and Anya shatters above her, curling over her and pressing her into the furs with a cry.  Her knot throbs, her cock surges deep, and Anya shivers violently as her cum spills over.  Clarke whimpers, another orgasm shaking her to her bones.  She is pinned down fully, unable to move as hot cum floods her cunt. Stretched wide by the knot, held tightly in place, she feels the thick fluid overflow, giving way to a wonderful fullness as her belly swells to take it all.  Anya is still trembling, still coming, her whimpers muffled in the back of Clarke’s neck, and the feeling of her teeth setting into the new mating mark sends Clarke over the edge all over again.  

* * *

They lie tied for longer than Clarke can fathom.  She scarcely registers the passage of time, caught up in Anya’s scent and touch and warmth.  Orgasms wrack them both, their bodies shivering from time to time, settling together only to curl into each other with soft, startled sounds as the waves break again and again.  When at last they seem to have calmed, Anya maneuvers them onto their sides, tugging Clarke back to lie in the shelter of her arms.  

They breathe there together, Anya stroking her hands over Clarke’s sides, warmth enveloping her, pressing kisses to her ear and the side of her head and to the new mark that binds them.  Night has nearly fallen, the last soft glow of the sun shadowing the room with rosy orange light.  All is quiet; in the cradle of Anya’s embrace, Clarke can hear her own heart beating.

Anya’s fingers curl around her belly.

“Do you really want my pups?”  The hesitance is breathed into her ear.  Anya’s fingers are hot against her skin, pressing gently into the light swell of her womb.  Her lips brush the sensitive place where the bite mark throbs.  

Fingers close around Anya’s, reassuring, and Clarke turns so that she can look her new mate in the eyes.

“So much,” she whispers.  In the quiet dusk of their room, her eyes are bright.  “More than anything, I want to build a family with you.”  Clarke can picture it now, the family they will raise together in this house, within these walls, in the heart of the home she has finally found.  With the pain of war behind them, and nothing but peace ahead, Clarke finds that she is content, relaxed, for the first time in her life.  For the first time, she has the freedom to let herself sleep in the arms of her mate without fear of what might come tomorrow.

Her mate.  Anya is her _mate._  After so short a time, it scarcely seems possible, but Clarke feels like she has waited a lifetime.  

Anya buries her face in the back of her neck with a happy sigh.  

“You are very young,” she murmurs into her hair after a moment in which they both simply breathe and imagine.  “You are healthier now, but you are scarcely eighteen autumns, _ai niron._  Your body is still settling, and now that you are being cared for, it will take a little time to adjust.  Likely you will not bear them this first heat.”  Clarke hums and presses back into her warmth.

“Soon, though,” she says.  A contented smile steals across her face.  “Next time.”  

“Soon,” Anya echoes, and the spark beneath her hand feels like a promise.

Eventually, they rouse themselves out of their daze enough to move.  Clarke by now is languid and sleepy, her body limp and eyes drooping with exhaustion.  She whines in protest as Anya pulls out.  Instantly, her thighs are soaked with their collective pleasure, and she grumbles at the feeling of stickiness spreading beneath her.  Anya only hushes her with a soft kiss, gathering her into her arms, and carries her to the still-warm bathtub like a bride.  

Clarke clings to her as Anya lowers her in.  The water is miraculously still fairly hot from the embers; it’s soothing on her achy muscles and the burn between her thighs.  By the amused look Anya shoots her as she slips into the water behind her, her delight is audible.  Chuckling, her Alpha eases her to lie back against her chest, and Clarke surrenders to the luxury of being bathed.

Anya washes her hair with attentive hands, combing the snarls from it as she goes.  She smoothes soap over Clarke’s aching body more tenderly than Clarke knew was possible.  A tiny whimper breaks the air when gentle hands slip between her legs to wash her.  Clarke is oversensitive, too overstimulated to formulate her thoughts, but Anya reads the shifting of her body well.  This time, the pleasure that she draws from her is gentle, and Clarke comes against her lover’s chest with a gasp and the beginnings of tears in her eyes.  

After, when she is nearly falling asleep and the world threatening to melt away, Anya rouses her to coax her from the water.  She is wrapped in a warm towel, then dressed by doting hands in a soft, worn shirt that falls halfway to her knees and smells comfortingly of her Alpha.  Anya carries her then, lifts her up with Clarke’s shaky legs wrapped around her waist and totes her to the couch.  She stokes a fire to life while Clarke is allowed to rest, and then busies herself in the kitchen.  Clarke dozes while Anya fusses, drifting in and out with the soft sounds of the fire.  She stretches out, feeling the pleasant burn in her muscles, and simply breathes in the autumn air; the furs, the flames, her own heat and warm skin, and the new note that is both Clarke and Anya, uniquely theirs.  

Anya wakes her again to bring her food.  She moves in behind Clarke on the couch; Clarke leans back into her hold and revels in the luxury and newness of it all.  Resting in Anya’s arms, food being offered to her lips, her belly still heavy with her Alpha’s seed; it’s not something she could have ever imagined for herself.  When they have eaten their fill, Anya lies back upon the couch and urges Clarke down with her.  Clarke blankets her, presses her forehead into her hot chest with the light of the fire flickering on the edges of her face, and decides that if this isn’t paradise, she doesn’t care to know what is.  

Her mind wanders as she drifts, retracing the last two months, and as her eyes begin to close, Clarke chuckles quietly.

“What is it?”  Anya’s voice is softer than it has ever been.  Clarke smiles against the mark on her neck.

“I was just thinking of how many times we tried to murder each other before we fell in love,” she says with a quiet laugh.  “I can’t believe I won our fight in the mud.”  She can’t see Anya, but she can feel her mirrored smile.

“We should have a rematch,” the Alpha suggests.  Long fingers trace up her spine, swiveling across constellations in her skin.  

“You think you’d win, Alpha?”  Nearly asleep, Clarke’s mumble is a lot less taunting than she intends.  Anya’s heartbeat trips up, then speeds up, then settles once more.  

“Only one way to find out,” she answers playfully.  Then her fingers slow, and her voice lowers to match the soothing feel.  “But we will find out tomorrow.  Sleep now, ai niron.  The fire will stay lit, and I will hold you through the night.”  

The rhythm of Anya’s heart is steady in her ear, and with a last kiss pressed to her temple, Clarke’s eyes close, and the warmth of the hearth carries her at last into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life in lockdown means I'm cleaning up chapters out of boredom because I like posting them without editing at 3:00AM, so sorry if you keep getting update emails! I'm working on the next chapter, but because we're currently in an actual apocalypse . . . no guarantees as to when it'll be up lol.


End file.
